


The Cracks in Our Armor

by TheBashfulPoet



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellarke, Clarke Griffin & John Murphy Friendship, Clarke/Jasper/Monty science bro friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Miller is done with everyone's shit, Murphy is an Ass, Octavia Ships It, Or so I've been told, Slow Build, Slow Burn, TheBashuflPoet, but like a lovable one, slow that's like fiery pit of hell slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 157,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBashfulPoet/pseuds/TheBashfulPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin has been hanging by a thread for so long she no longer remembers what it is like to stand with the earth firm beneath her feet. So really it should not come as a surprise that this is the year the ground finally swallows her whole.</p><p>When she loses her best friend to a school shooting and finds out her boyfriend of two years has another girlfriend of 4, Clarke runs and hits the road for a school conference to escape it all. Of course with her luck, her only companion on the road is one Bellamy Blake, her undeclared rival, and president of the Ark University Student Council.</p><p>But after spending hours trapped together in the car, Clarke begins to realize that there is more to Bellamy Blake than she originally thought, especially as her life becomes impossibly more entangled with his when they get back to school.</p><p>With Clarke on the cusp of breaking, will Bellamy be the one to finally push her over the edge or will he just be the one to pull her away?</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Undergoing some minor edits, but otherwise complete!</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Road Again

**Author's Note:**

> First off I would just like to thank you all for taking the time to click on this fan fiction as it is my first Bellarke one as well as first one for the 100 series. I know it is probably going to be a little rough, but I tried my best and hope you like it!

                        The road stretched before her, the sun starting to sink lower and lower into the sky until it paints the world a dull orange. With a sigh, she turns her face to the rolling hills of green outside the window to her right. It looked so peaceful and calm, a direct contrast to what stormed inside her own mind.

            The last year had been… _trying_. In the last several months alone, Clarke has single handily lost the two people that had meant the world to her, Wells and Finn.

            Her heart breaks at the first name, the pain of losing him still so raw and heavy it’s like the first day she heard it all over again. If she would have just _known_ that going to California would have been the death of him, she never would have let him go, at least not alone.

            But she guesses that it does not matter now; he is still gone and she can feel a hole in her chest. A hole that she had hoped Finn would help patch (though she is not even entirely sure if that was at all possible), yet it seems that too was just hopeful wishing.

            It was kind of hard to patch a hole when you were too busy ripping open another.

            She rests her head on the window, letting her eyes slide closed and the thrums of the car vibrate through her. At least the year only had a month more to it. Perhaps her luck would finally take a turn for the better, or simply leave her to wallow in the pains it had already inflicted.

            “If you leave a smudge on my window, you’re cleaning it.”

            Or maybe not, seeing how she’s forgotten her newest bout of misfortune. Her eyes crack open as she shifts to stare at one Bellamy Blake.

            Bellamy is a lot of things. He is ruggedly handsome (not that she’d admit this aloud, especially within earshot of said person) and knew it. He is nearly five years her senior yet only a year or two ahead of her. He runs the ARC University Student Council with a charming smile and a seemingly carefree attitude that really only serves to get you to do his bidding. He is also the biggest pain in Clarke’s ass.

            Truth be told, she is not quite sure what sparked the fabled Griffin-Blake rivalry (as her friend have so lovingly dubbed it), but in the years that she has known him they could hardly stand to be in the same room as each other for a few minute without dissolving into a battle of wills on the best of days or a screaming match on the worst. Which, considering her position as vice president of the student council made her life a living hell (and probably his as well).

            “I’ll wash your windows when you stop being an asshole.”

            He shoots a glare in her direction and she cannot help but flinch as she realizes her mistake.

            “Oh so _now_ you can talk.” He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white with the strain, “And here I thought you’ve decided to take a vow of silence since that are the only words you’ve uttered in the entirety of the _two days_.”

            Clarke rubs her eyes absently, trying to stop an oncoming migraine. It was not as if she could exactly blame him for the hostility —at least in this particular moment— seeing how _they_ were both chosen to go to this conference on behalf of ARC U where _they_ were to give a presentation, but in the end it was Bellamy who ended up doing the presentation while Clarke remained staged in the back completely silent. If she was in his position, she’d probably be pissed too.

            “Look, I’m sorry about the conference okay? I just-” she cuts herself off, “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll cover your duties for the next week.”

            “Oh so you can screw those up too?” he scoffs, “No thanks.”

            “I fucked up. I know that ” she clenches her jaw and her fingers press hard on the bridge of her nose, “What more do you want me to do? It’s already in the past.”         

            “How about you do your fucking job for starters, _Princess._ ”

            Clarke flinches at the nickname. She hated it. She _fucking hated it_. But that only served as fuel for him to relentlessly use it as a weapon against her. The worst part is that the damn thing was so catchy _everyone_ began to use it as a tease. Even Finn.

            Before she can open her mouth to respond (an equally rude remark poised on her tongue), he phone starts buzzing in the pocket of her jacket. She knows who it is without even glancing at it.

            She screens the call only for it to ring the moment it clears. She does it again. It rings. This time she lets it.

            “How much longer do we have left?”

            “Oh about another _three hours,_ ” he smirks, “What can’t wait to get back to your little boyfriend? I’m sure he’s been blowing up your phone since we left.”

            Her phone stops buzzing and she says nothing, instead opting to look out the window once more.

            He shifts his gaze from the road to her, eyes flicking up and down over her. Normally this would be the part where she would bite back with an equally as snippy comment, but she simply could not muster the strength to play their little game. She is just _tired_.

            She half expects him to jump at her silence, but oddly enough he lets it drop, eyes sliding back to the road without another word. They sit in that silence, only the sound of the road and the soft purr of the engine filling the space between them. It’s almost nice.

            Of course, until her phone starts buzzing again.

            _Just leave me alone_ , she thinks, pressing her face closer to the glass.

            She pulls it from her pocket and sets in on the center console. It vibrates against the leather causing the air to shift and fill with its incessant buzzing. She squeezes her eyes shut, not wanting to deal with any of it. Not today. _Not ever_.

            _For god’s sake, Shut. Up._

            The phone stops vibrating and she can’t help but sag a little in relief.

            _Finally._

Bellamy’s eyes flick from the road once more, “Let me guess, trouble in paradise?”

            Maybe it was her already frayed nerves or maybe it was the way his voice seemed to drip with disdain and haughtiness, but something in her finally decided to snap.

            “What the fuck is your _problem_ , Bellamy,” she whips around, “You may be mad, but that does not mean you can talk to me like that. I’m _not_ some child you can chide, I’m the vice fucking president of this union and you will show me some _damn_ _respect_.”

            Her fury sang in her ears as her heart drummed to the beat of the upcoming battle and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she should stop, but it was as if all the anger that had been bubbling in her stomach came rushing to the surface. Anger at Finn. Anger at Bellamy. Anger at _herself_.

            And really, Bellamy always knew how to bring out the worst in her.

            “Oh really,” he bites back, “You could have fooled me with the way you were acting earlier.”

            “I said I was sorry!”

            “Sorry doesn’t excuse the fact that I had to pick up all the extra slack!”

            “Don’t act as if you’re perfect, Bellamy!” she points an accusing finger, “I’ve had more than my fair share of picking up your slack and _never_ gave you half the shit you’re giving me.”

            His jaw locks, “I’ve never-”

            “Atom. Last year when he was choking to death on the bonding retreat hike and you froze. He could have _died_ ,” she spits, “At least all you had to worry about was covering a few sliders in a fucking presentation.”

            “I did not _freeze_.” he growls, “I hesitated for a second. You shut down for _days_. Besides, that was over a year ago!”

            “And the conference was _yesterday!_ Get over it.”

            “ _Fine!_ ”

            “Fine!”

            They turn away in a huff, a tense silence falling over them once more. His grip on the wheel tightening impossibly and his jaw locking in annoyance. Her muscles twitch with the strain of being wound up and her heart pounding in her ears drowning away everything.

            In an effort to calm herself, she focuses back on the grassy fields stretched before her. Frankly, there is not much there, mostly just wide open fields of grass with the mountains lining the horizon and every so often a patch of wild flowers far off into the distance. She finds she misses the comfort of the tree lined area surrounding her school, finding comfort in the seclusion offered by it when she loses herself among the roots and leaves. She begins to ache for such sanctuary now, but it dawns on her that returning there means facing Finn and suddenly the fields become more appealing. At least there he could never find her.

            As if summoned by her thoughts, the phone begins ringing once again, snapping her attention from the window. She knows she shouldn’t but, her eyes drop to the screen of the phone. Of course, it is a mistake.

            A picture of them smile back, Finn’s arm slung around her shoulder, pulling her closer so he could plant a kiss on her cheek and a bright smile that swallows her face. She remembers that day. Remembers the way he heart skipped when he surprised her with his lips soft against her skin and the way she couldn’t wipe that grin off her face for the rest of the day. She loved him or at least thought she loved him. Now all she felt was the short jab of a broken heart.

            She yanks the phone from the console and rolls down the window.

            “Whoa, what are you-” Bellamy starts, throwing glances between her and the road.

            She hurls the phone out the window before he has the chance to finish, watching as it shatters on impact and its pieces scatter on the road behind them.

            “Okay, that’s it!”

            Bellamy pulls the car off the road and into a dirt patch on the side. He slams it in park and whirls on her.

            “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

            “Nothing.”

            She can feel her own annoyance begin to bubble. It wasn’t like she threw _his_ phone out the window. Besides, no one was even on the road with them.

            “Nothing? _Nothing?!_ You threw a phone out the god damn window, _Princess._ Not to mention almost hitting my car in the process. That’s not nothing.”

            “Oh please-”

            “And there is the little fact that you’ve been practically catatonic all weekend, Clarke. You didn’t speak, you hardly ate, so clearly _something_ must be going on with you. Now tell me before you do something a lot more reckless than throwing shit out a moving car.”

            “Why do you even care?!” she nearly screams.

            “I don’t! Though I would like to make it back to school with me and my car in one piece!”

            “Oh bite me, Bellamy!”

            She quickly unfastens her seatbelt and throws open the car door. He reaches over to grab her, but she’s moving too quickly, already out the seat before his fingers clasp the air.

            She stalks away, feet angrily crunching the gravel and dirt beneath her shoes as she stomps out into the field. She can hear him curse followed by the slam of a car door.

            “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

            “Away from you!”

            “Quit being stupid, Princess! Get back in the car.”

            “Screw you, Bellamy.” She keeps walking.

            “Clarke!”

            She does not stop, the drum of her heart pushing her forward, farther, _faster_ until she is practically running. She could feel it, the weight of everything pressing down on her and her body starting to sink beneath it. Little by little the armor, she had kept in place all weekend was cracking as the pressure built. The threat of falling apart nipped at her heels.

            Faster. She needed to go _faster_.

            The picture of her and Finn smiling.

_Faster._

            His lips on her cheek.

            _Faster_.

            But no matter how fast she ran it all came rushing back, hitting her like a freight train. Yet, still, she runs, knowing if she stops that will be it. So she ran, hoping to keep the pieces of herself together for a second longer.

            But of course, she can’t.

            A hand roughly grabs her wrist and yanks her to a halt.

            “Where the hell do y-you think you’re running off t-to?” Bellamy pants.

            She tries to pull away, but his grip just anchors her there, trying to pull her to look at him. But she can’t. She just _can’t_. Every wall she has ever built is crashing down around her and it was all quickly becoming too much for her to handle. She couldn’t muster up a smile or some snarky remark because she was just _so tired_. All she felt was pain and desperation to feel anything but and if he took one look at her face, he would know it.

            “Let go of me Bellamy,” she’s trying to keep her voice level, but it cracks at his name.

            “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

            “ _Just let go!_ ”

            “Not a chance, Princess.”

            “STOP CALLING ME THAT!”

            It startles herself, her voice sounding every bit as raw and desperate as she was trying to hide. Apparently, it must startle him too because his grip loosens enough for her to pull away, but even when she’s free, she doesn’t run.

            “Clarke,” his voice is tentative and low as if he is speaking to a spooked animal (which might not be far off).

            She can feel the tears trying to struggle over her eyelids, but she refuses to cry, looking to the sky in hopes of keeping them at bay. Wrapping her arms around herself she stares in silence, hoping it will be enough to hold her together. Bellamy says nothing, slowly taking a step closer until his hand just gently touches her shoulder.

            It’s that small gesture that finally throws her over the edge. Tear stream down her cheeks and drip off her chin wordlessly, her body shaking from the sobs she manages to choke back.

            “Clarke.”

            She continues looking at the sky, her vision becoming increasingly blurry.

            “Clarke, look at me.”

            She doesn’t budge.

            “ _Clarke_.”

            She wipes away her tears and steels herself to look at him, but it doesn’t work because the moment she looks him in the eye, she breaks again.

            Instead of his usual look of annoyance with his jaw set and eyes harden into a glare, his deep brown eyes are swimming with worry and confusion. His normally sharp features are softened as he scans every inch of her face for a clued of what’s wrong. Not once in the two years since she's known him has she _ever_ seen him look at her like that. No one has.

            “ _What?_ ” Her voice cracks. It’s all she can do to keep the tears back.           

            His jaw tightens and he takes a step forward. Of all things she expected of Bellamy Blake, what he does next was not on the list of possibilities. He pulls her into his chest and tucks her head under his chin. He stands nearly a head taller than her, so her face comfortably fits in the crook of his neck and shoulder. She is stunned. Bellamy Blake was _hugging_ her. Before she could pull away, his arm wraps around her waist and the other softly strokes the top of her head and down the length of her hair.

            "It's okay." He says softly, "It's _okay_."

            She can feel the vibrations on her cheek from his chest and as much as she wants to pull away, it felt so nice to have that contact. Ever since she left on this stupid trip two days ago, she's been alone in this. She didn't even tell Jasper and Monty, the closest things she had to best friends after Wells.  She couldn't bear the reality of it all, and yet here was Bellamy, the absolute last person she'd ever expect to give a damn, holding her in his arms telling her it was okay. Like it actually _was_ okay. She could feel the hot tears stream down her face. But it wasn't okay. She didn't know if it would ever be okay, not after everything that has happened.

            "But it's _not_." she sobs, "It's not okay!"

            "Shhh" He quiets, "It's okay not to be strong all the time, Princess."

            "I thought I told you to stop calling me that."  She can feel his shirt soak with her tears but she can't stop them from falling.

            He chuckles softly but says nothing more. And that's how Clarke found herself wrapped in the arms of who she thought to be her worst enemy for the next 20 minutes, crying her eyes out.

***

            "Why are you being so nice to me?" Clarke asks. They have long since returned to the car and Bellamy was driving in silence, only looking away from the road every now and then to make sure she was okay. "I thought you hated me."

            He scoffs at this and raises an eyebrow, "You think I hate you?"

            "With as much as we fight?"

            "Okay, I see your point." They sit in silence for a moment before he continues, "No. I don't hate you."

            "For what it's worth, I don't _actually_ hate you either. Do you frustrate me? Yes. Beyond measure. But I don't hate you." She admits, "But you make it hard not to sometimes."

            "Right back at you, Princess" He smirks. She winces at the nickname, but it's not said with the same venom as before, but rather, it's said almost fondly.

            More silence continues and Clarke shuffles uncomfortably in her seat. She feels like she owes him an explanation. She did just have a meltdown in front of the guy not even an hour ago.

            "Look-" She starts

            "You don't have to explain anything." He gives her a soft look, "Really. It's fine."

            She squirms in her seat again. How could he just know what she was thinking? It sent a chill down her spine just thinking about how easily he read her. She wonders if it's been the first time he's been able to do that or if she's always been an open book.

            "Thanks."

            "No problem."

            They sit in silence once again and she looks out the window. The sun was setting to her right. The line of mountains almost swallowing the red sphere and the sky a mixture of pink and orange hues. She knew then that even though she didn't _need_ to give him an explanation, she _wanted_ to.

            "Finn cheated on me." She finally says at last. God, it was the first time she ever said the words out loud. Somehow it just made it so real. She could feel the tears threatening to fill her eyes once more, but she swallows them back down. "The day we left, I caught him in his room wrapped around another girl."

            She could still see them entangled on his bed. The slender girl curled up on his chest and his hand playing idly with a strand of her hair that was spilled again the pillow. They were both fully clothed but the scene was much more intimate than if they hadn't been. Something about the way he casually kissed the top of her head tore something deep inside Clarke.

            "He didn't try to deny it."

            She remembers him pleading with her to listen, that it was complicated, but she could barely hear his words.

            "Said they grew up together, that they were family."

            Somehow that hurt more than seeing them together. That he considered her family, but Clarke was expendable.

            "So I left. Packed my bag and took off to this stupid day camp." She stops and takes a minute to gather herself up again. "So there you go."

            When he didn't respond, she dared a glance in his direction. His jaw was locked and his grip tight on the steering wheel. It a moment before he finally speaks.

            "The guy's an asshole."

            She can't help but laugh.

            He shoots her a look, "What's so funny?"

            She tries to stifle a laugh but fails miserably, "Nothing!"

            "What!"

            "It' just like calling the kettle black!"

            His gaze hardens, "I would never do something like that."

            His tone silences her laugh and she realizes what she just implied. "No, I didn't mean it like that. I just-" She hangs her head in frustration. "You're not that kind of guy." She thinks back to how he held her in the field. _No, he isn't._ It was silly to believe that just because he showed her an act of kindness it meant he was a good guy, but the way his hand stroked her hair as he whispered that it was okay seemed so loving. She couldn't see him doing that. _He wasn't Finn._

            "Just an asshole though, right?" He scoffs.

            "I mean, you were _pretty_ judgmental about the whole day camp thing…" she rolls her eyes in mock annoyance.

            "Well, at least I'm not a crazy person who throws phones outside of car windows." He retorts.

            "Oh get over it! No one was behind us!"

            "Whatever you say, Princess, but if there is even one scratch on my car, you're going to buff it out yourself!"

            She raises an eyebrow to that, "Oh is that right?"

            "Damn right!"

            They fall into their old patterns and bicker for the next few hours about random things from what station they should listen to, to where they should stop to get food for the night, to who would pay to fill up the tank. Clarke wouldn't notice at first, but they had fallen into a comfortable place with each other. She could almost forget the nagging feeling at the back of her mind reminding her of what awaited when they returned back to campus.


	2. Oceandust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke return to campus and Clarke has a hard time avoiding Finn, who is relentless pursuing her at every corner. What surprises Clarke though, is Bellamy's reaction to it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off I just want to thank you all for the Kudos on the previous chapter as well as the bookmarks! They mean so much and bring a smile to my face every time I get a notification. I also want to thank you all for your patience as I worked on this chapter! It turned out to a lot longer than I originally intended, but I'm quite happy with how it turned out and it covered everything I wanted to! Please enjoy reading and I hope to see you at the end!

            By the time they finally arrived back on campus it is already well into the night, a blanket of black and quiet falling over the grounds like the flip of a switch. She has always preferred the campus better at night with the usually crowded walkways empty and the only sound of the leaves rustling in the wind filling the air. It’s one of the reasons she had chosen the school, having first seen the campus at night (though the full-ride scholarship didn’t hurt either) and even now when she couldn’t sleep, she would walk around lost in thought.

She looks over to Bellamy, who has stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walking around with an air of caution as if he expects someone to jump out at any moment. She can't help but laugh as his eyes casually shift side to side every now and then.

            "What?" she teases, "Afraid of the dark, Bellamy?"

            "Very funny, Princess." He smirks, "But I'm not the one clinging to my side for dear life."

            She is about to protest when she notices that she is standing a _bit_ too close for comfort. A soft burn crawls from her chest to her cheeks and she takes a step back.

            "I’m not scared,” she protests, “It’s just cold.”

She wasn’t lying. Tonight was particularly chilly, as a gust of wind washes over then causing a chill to run down her spine.

            His smirk widens, "Whatever you say."

            "Well if _someone_ didn't take so long driving back, then maybe we would have been back here _before_ it got late and cold!"

            "Well maybe if _someone_ didn't _demand_ we stop for food for a _second_ time, we would have."

            "You cannot count gas station snacks as _actual_ food. I was starving!"

            "Well now you're cold!"

            The urge to slap him was rising at alarming rates, and the only way to stay the urger was to press her mouth into a tight line and spin on her heels. Yet before she can get far, Bellamy lightly grabs her elbow.

            "Where are you going now?"

            She raises an eyebrow, "My dorm?"

            "I'll walk you."

            His response surprises her, though she knows it really shouldn’t. Not after what happened in the field. Still, her mind was struggling to differentiate between the Bellamy she had thought she had known all these years and the one who had held her so gently in the field. The fact that he had gone back to being the same obnoxious jerk she had grown to hate —all signs of the tender touches and soft words gone— didn’t help.

            "What's in it for you?" she asks skeptically.

            He scoffs at this and folds his arm across his chest, "Do you really think so little of me that I'd let you walk by yourself this late at night?"

"It's not like I haven't done it before."

            His jaw tightens a bit at her words, "Well not tonight."

            From the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice, it didn’t leave much room for argument (not that she had much energy to try). She sighs in defeat and just waves him forward.

            "Come on, I live in Mount Weather"

            He follows without another word.

            When they finally arrive at the doors of Mount Weather —promptly given its name since it was constructed out of what used to be a mountain and its enormity hidden by many underground floors and halls— Bellamy stands back as she fumbles with her keys and unlocks the entrance. She pauses slightly, propping the door open with her shoulder, and looks back at him. Strangely, she doesn’t know what her next move should be. What was the protocol for when what should have been your rival walks you home across a dark campus simply because he doesn’t want you to walk along?

            "Did you want to come in for a bit or something? I can whip us up some coffee."

            She knows it is a mistake as soon as the corner of his lip twitches upwards. A small smirk spreads on his lips and he leans closer invading her personal space.

            "Are you inviting me to your room, Princess?" His eyes rake over her before meeting her gaze once again, " _This_ late at night?"

            She can feel her face heat at the implication, "Oh please, like I'd ever be _that_ desperate."

            He raises his hand to his chest and backs away in mock shock, "You wound me with your words."

            She rolls her eyes, but a small smile tugs at her lips, "Good night, Bellamy."

            "Night, Princess." He smirks.

            And with that he is gone, leaving her standing in the doorway watching his back fade into the distance. When another gust of wind rushes over her, she decides it's time to finally crawl to her room and into the warm haven of her bed. The front lobby is empty as Clarke makes her way to the communal lounge that is also mostly empty, except for a couple of boys arguing over what appeared to be a zombie survival game.

            "I told you NOT to go in there!" One says to the other with the controller in hand.

            "Well excuse me for being thorough!"

            Their friendly bickering brings a smile to her face as she rounds the corner to her hall. Returning her gaze in front, she stops dead in her tracks. Slumped against her door in the middle of the hall was Finn. At first her mind screams for her to flee, body tensing ready for slight, but then she sees his head dip slightly and knows he is asleep. Her muscles loosen as his chest rises and falls softly with each breath.

 She slumps against the wall on her right. At least she wouldn't have to deal with this all now. Then again, if she were being honest with herself, she doesn’t trust herself to not do something stupid right now, like listen to the bastard. She takes a few steps closer, but not enough to alert him to her presence.

            His hair was shorter than it was the last time she saw him and his face a bit slimmer, but she couldn't tell for sure. Yet even with his haircut, his brown locks fall over his face as he sleeps. She resists the urge to brush them aside as she had done so many times before.

            "Clarke."

            His voice sends a shiver down her spine and her heart stops. She lowers her eyes expecting to find his earthy eyes meet her own blue ones, only to find them still closed in slumber. She can feel herself momentarily relax, before the void pulls deep within her chest. _He's not yours, Clarke._ Still she can't help but take in his face. His brows were knit in frustration and his mouth turned in a slight frown. It was an expression she'd often see on Bellamy rather than Finn and somehow it pulled at her chest to see him this way. Finn was always so full of life and energy. He loved so deeply about everyone and you couldn't help but smile when he was around. He could always make _her_ smile. Even at the worst of times.

Maybe that's why she didn't see it. She had already fallen too far. He always gave her hope, but now? The void in her chest answers that.  She could feel the tears threatening her eyes again. She closes them tightly and takes a step back.

            "Clarke…"

            He begins to squirm and she decides that it's time to go. She retreats back around the corner and into the lounge once more. The boys are still there, but she has lost interest in their squabble and makes her way back to the lobby. She lays her hand on the door handle but stops.  _Where would she go?_ She couldn't open her door without waking Finn and if she stayed in the lobby, he'd eventually find her when he woke up. She didn't have a roommate, so sneaking in through the window is a no go, especially since she keeps it locked for that exact reason. She thought about going to Jasper and Monty's room, but it's late and she doesn't know if she could deal with telling them what happened right now. Plus, she didn't think she would be able to get into their building without calling them first (Okay so maybe throwing the phone out the window was a bad idea).

There was always Bellamy. Scratch that. It would be a nightmare and she doesn't think she could survive a night without killing him in his sleep.  Plus, he also lived in a different dorm. (She really needs to make friends in her _own_ dorm) She lets loose a heavy sigh when she realizes her only option really, is the library. She could already feel the creak in her neck at the thought of sleeping on those terrible couches.

            Tossing a lasting glance behind her, she pushes opens the door.

 

* * *

 

            To much of her displeasure, Clarke really did wake up with a strain in her neck and a sore back from twisting at odd angles in her sleep on the tiny couch. She also completely missed her first two classes because there wasn't an alarm to wake her (again a dumb move on her part to throw her phone out a window). By the time she manages to slug herself off the couch and back to her dorm, Finn is gone. She can't lie, it was a little disappointing, but she took full advantage of the opportunity as she quickly slips into her room to shower and change into fresh clothes.

            Avoiding Finn became easy from that point. With the Fall semester coming to an end, Clarke was up to her ears in classwork and homework on top of her usual duties for the Student Union. In fact, she barely had time to eat, much less deal with Finn and his girlfriend —whose name she learned was Raven. So, she buried her nose in a book and stay cleared away.

She was doing so flawlessly and indiscreetly that even Jasper and Monty were clueless to her plans. To be fair, Monty was a _little_ distracted by some mystery boy by the name of Nathan, so really, she couldn’t blame the poor boy. The only reason they figured it out is because Finn knocked at their door one afternoon when she was in the room and practically begged them to not let him know she was there. Oh, who was she kidding, she flung herself across the door to stop them from opening it.

            Jasper opens it anyway, leaving Clarke hidden in the small space between the door and the wall.

            "Hey Finn!" Jasper greets, "What's up?"

            "Uh" Fin pauses, "Have you guys seen Clarke? I've been looking for her all afternoon."

            Jasper's eyes flicker to the door for a moment before shrugging, "Sorry haven't seen her." He leans back, covering her from view, as he looks back at Monty who is busying himself with his phone. "What about you Monty?"

            "Nope." he replies dully, "Though I think she mentioned something about going to the library after class today."

            He looks up from his phone and gives Finn a shrug with a small smile. "Sorry, Man."

            Jasper turns back to Finn. "Is everything okay between you two?"

            At first Finn doesn't answer, but then she hears the creak of the door frame as he leans his weight against it. "No. I don't think they are."

            She listens to his footsteps as they slowly retreat down the hall and Jasper closes the door. As it clicks shut, she slides down the wall and hugs her knees to her chest. Jasper crouches down and wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer.

            "What's going on, Clarke?" He says softly.

            "I'm the other woman."  She can barely get the words out without tears threatening to fill her eyes. _God_ , will it ever stop hurting? Jasper's arm stiffens around her.

            "What do you mean? Like he's got _another_ girlfriend?"

            "Yeah," she laughs bitterly, "Something like that."

            "God… I'm so sorry Clarke. I didn't know. I _swear_ I didn't know."

            She raises her eyes to meet his and she can see them swimming with guilt. Jasper was the one who introduced her to Finn.

"No,” she says firmly, “you couldn't have known. It’s not like you knew him much longer than I did."

            "Still…"

            "I'm going to kill him." They both jump at the sound of Monty's voice. Usually the more level headed one of the duo, the ice in his voice sent chills down Clarke's back.

            "Don't. It's okay. He's an asshole but not worth the punch."

            "Besides," Jasper pipes in, "there are other ways of getting him back."

            At this, Monty raises an eyebrow, "Oh?"

            She can't help but roll her eyes playfully, _this could not be good._ "I’m serious guys. Leave it be."

            Jasper gives her a goofy grin, "No can do, Captain! As your best friends, we are honor bound to defend _your_ honor."

            This brings a small smile to her face, but she tries to put on a stern look though not very well. "I'm serious. No pranks."

            "Oh no pranks are too good for what we have in mind." Monty grins throwing a glance at Jasper, which only makes his grin grow wider.

            "You two are impossible!" She gives up with a laugh.

            After the events in Jasper and Monty's room, things returned to normal. She was still busy with work. She was still avoiding Finn. Hell, she was even fighting with Bellamy again every time they managed to be in the same room for more than a minute.

All signs of what had happened in the field were long forgotten as they resumed their positions on either side of the battlefield. Still, the semester was closing and with it this hellish year. Most of her finals were already over and she was finding herself with more and more free-time, which at any other point in her life she would have been thrilled about (you don't get a lot of free time as a pre-med student) but now free time meant Finn trying to bug her at every opportunity he got. To avoid that, she started taking any and all jobs her other colleagues in the Student Union could give her, even going as far as taking over Bellamy's paperwork.

            "So you can study for your finals," she told him with a shrug. 

            The look he gives her is one that calls her lie. "Really now? Tell me, Princess, don't _you_ have finals to study for?"

            "Already done," she lies.

            He gives his signature smirk, but drops the stack of papers he was carrying in onto her desk. "Knock yourself out. Got some more on my desk," his eyes sparkle with a challenge, "that is if you're up to it."

            Now Clarke didn't like smug look on his face as she does _him_ a favor, but she also wasn't one to turn down a challenge. Especially not from one Bellamy Blake.

"Sure, Bellamy. No problem at all. I mean at least they will get _done_ on time."      

            Bellamy's jaw tightens and he strides over to his desk and grabs another huge stack of papers and drops it with a thump beside the first one. He smirks as her eyes scan over the large pile. And really, she did it to herself. Well, at least Finn wasn’t going to be a problem anytime soon.

            "Good luck, Princess." He laughs on his way out the door.

            What Clarke didn't realize that in her blind panic to busy herself, (and to "stick it" to Bellamy) she ended up with way more work than she could actually handle. And that is exactly how she finds herself holed up in the Student Union office surrounded by paperwork, way too many sharpies, and the blank stare of a poster banner.

She lays her head down with a thud. At least Finn hasn’t found her yet.

            The sound of the door opening causes a low groan to slip from her lips. "The office of Clarke is now officially closed for the night. Please try again tomorrow."

            "Clarke."

            _Of fucking course._ Her eyes slide open to see Finn standing in the doorway, his eyes sad when they finally catch hers. Looking at him now, she is certain his face is thinner and bags have darkened his eyes in what looks like exhaustion. Funny, she'd seen him and Raven snuggled up under a tree on campus earlier this week. He seemed to be sleeping fine then.

            "What do you want Finn?"

            "Clarke we need to talk." He sighs. His eyes are pleading, but she looks away. She won't be fooled again.

            "No Finn, we really don't."

            "Clarke-"

            "As you can see," She waves a hand over the stacks of paper in front of her, "I have a lot to catch up on, so."

            She returns her attention to the stack of paper and plucks the first one off the top of the pile. Despite a few minutes passing in silence, she can still feel his eyes on her skin and sense his presence lingering in the door. A soft sigh breaks the silence and for a moment she thinks that he’s given up, but then his breath tickles the back of her skin as his lips level next her ear.

            "There's a party tonight at The Drop Ship." His breath sends a shiver down her spine. "I'll be waiting."

With that his lips are gone and she feels him back away slowly. She doesn't move. Doesn’t look. And pretends that she doesn’t care that he’s walking. She pretends that it doesn't hurt to let him.

 

* * *

 

By the time the clock hits 10:30 Clarke was still seated hunched over the desk buried in paperwork. Specifically, Bellamy’s paperwork. To her credit she did finish her own stack of paper as well as a couple of stacks from Miller and Lexa (other members of the counsel she weaseled into giving her work). In addition to that she also finished the draft of a flier for their last event of the semester, a big event to celebrate the end of finals and the upcoming break. Yet despite all that progress, Bellamy’s stacks remained largely untouched. Because he was an asshole.

            His stack had no order at all, varying from budget reports to schedules to even old receipts from something they had purchased at the _beginning_ of the semester. A frustrated growl slips past her lips as she sorts through another stack of old receipts before she gives up and slams the paper to the desk. Pressing her hands to her eyes, she slumps back in the chair.

            "What's the matter, Princess? Thought you could handle it."

            Another groan slips loose. Without even bothering to remove her hands, she knows Bellamy is standing behind her with that damn smirk on his face.

            "What do you want, Bellamy." her voice came out a little harsher than intended, but she didn't care. She was tired and Bellamy was, well, _Bellamy_.

            "Ouch," he raises his hand in mock defeat and turns for the door, "And here I was about to offer my assistance, but seeing how hostile it is in here…" He takes a step towards the door.

            "Wait!" She almost falls out of the chair in her haste to get up. Pride be damned, she was going to be here all night at this point. "You can stay."

            "What was that?"

            "Don't be an ass."

            She regrets her decision as soon as he turns around, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. She groans internally. _Why her_.

            "See," he plops down in the seat in front of her, "You need me."

            "Yeah," she scoffs, "I need you to sort through all this crap." She waves a few pages at him, "I mean what the hell is with this system of yours?!"

            He scoffs and snatches the pages from her hand, "Oh that's rich, coming from you."

            "What is that supposed to mean?".

            He waves a hand towards her desk in the right corner of the room. She follows his gesture and sees her desk covered in stacks of papers as well as paints, pens and a stack of books shoved under a photograph.

            "It's called _organized_ chaos! At least I know where everything is!" she defends. So she wasn't the neatest person, sue her.

            "Please! You've lost your homework how many times in that mess?" he scoffs

            "Well at least _I_ always have my stuff ready instead of wasting everyone's time while _somebody_ looks for it!"

            "Pig!"

            "Jerk!"

            They stare each other down in silence, each frustrated with the other, but then Clarke can feel her anger fade into laughter. Soon she can't help but laugh at the look on his face and Bellamy find himself smiling despite his best efforts not to.

            "What's so funny?" he tries to glare, but it's not very convincing.

            "This.  Us." She waves a hand between them trying to stifle her giggles, " We're bickering like a couple of 5-year-olds."

            "Please," he leans back in his chair and finally allows himself a smile, "I'm at least a 7 years old."

            "Yeah, Bellamy," she laughs, "you're totally a 7-year-old."

They both laugh at that and for a moment Clarke forgets why he's there in the first place, until he stretches out his arms and grabs a handful of papers.

            "Okay, so how much have you actually gotten done?" he asks.

            She points to a few small stacks to her right.

            "That's it?" he smirks, "Man you really did need me, Princess."

            "One, stop calling me that. Two, I did have _other_ things to do besides your stupid paperwork."

            "Like?"

            "Making the poster for the event next week."

            "For the semester party?" he raises an eyebrow, "You finished it all by yourself?"

            "You say that like I had a choice."

            "Let me see."

            She squirms in her seat. Normally she didn't have a problem with showing people her art, but somehow showing it to Bellamy made her squirm. It's almost as if she cares what he thinks, which she totally _does not_.

            "Princess?"

            "Huh?" His words snap her mind out of thought.

            "The poster?"

            "Oh, uh yeah." she reaches for her laptop and tilts it towards him. "If it doesn't work, we could always do something tomorrow with the rest of the union-"

            "It's good."

            "What?"

            He smirks, "I said it was good. You've got some real talent there, Princess."

            She doesn't know what to say so she just looks down at her lap and mutters a "Thank you." Her cheeks burn with embarrassment at her sudden shyness.

            He lets the paper roll into itself and hands it back.

            "Okay let's get this done _before_ it's midnight."

            Surprisingly they manage to work without arguing _much_ and finish relatively quickly, way quicker than Clarke would have on her own. Not that she would ever admit that to Bellamy; she still has _some_ pride after all. That and his head was already two sizes too big.

            "Well I have to say, Princess, we managed to knock that out pretty quick. I mean," he looks at his watch, "It's not even 11:30 yet."

            "Is it? I haven't really been keeping up the time lately…"

            "Yeah," he scoffs, "I wonder why."

            "Okay, I get it! I promise I won't throw phones out any more windows."

            He raises an eyebrow, "Speaking of phones, why haven't you gotten a new one yet?"

            "Haven't really had the time. First there was finals, then there was-"

            "Avoiding Finn? Because that's the only reason your even in this mess."

            "I'm not _avoiding_ Finn. I just have had a lot on my plate." He gives her a look, "Okay so maybe I'm avoiding Finn a little bit."

            "Hey, I'm not judging. The guy's a dick."

            "Yeah…" She thinks of his thinned cheeks and sunken eyes.

            Bellamy looks at her, his eyes searching her own for the sadness that has desperately been trying to bury. She wonders if it is enough.

 If he does see it, he doesn't mention in but instead claps his hands together and rises from the chair. "Okay, since I'm such an amazing person and helped you with all this paperwork, you owe me a drink."

            "Excuse me? Exactly _whose_ paperwork was this?"

            "Ah, come on Princess. Buy a guy a drink."

            She rolls her eyes, "Isn't it usually the other way around?"

            "Why are you insinuating that you want me to buy you a drink?" he smirks. "Because I can do a lot better than that."

            His eyes glint with flirtation, but she just rolls her eyes, "Oh I'm sure you could." She pushes back in her chair, "Fine, I'll buy you a damn drink."

             He smiles, "Great! I'm in the mood for a Dropship special!"

            She freezes at the mention of the name, "Did you say the Dropship?"

She remembers Finn's lips near her ear and his breath as he speaks. _I'll be waiting._

"Uh, do you think that maybe we could go somewhere else?" she puts on a fake smile, "I swear I've been there so many times, it's unhealthy."

            His eyes meet hers and she swears he can see behind her mask. The intensity of his stare makes her want to turn away, but at the same time she can't. The deep brown of his eyes holds hers. 

"Are you really going to let him ruin _everything_ for you? " his voice is low, almost a growl.

            She finally recognizes the look behind his eyes. It's a challenge. And well Clarke wasn't known to turn down a challenge.

            "You driving, or am I?"

✖

            The Dropship is a coffee shop based not far off from ARC University, close enough to get the foot traffic of students walking around between classes looking for a caffeine fix. The biggest draw however was its laid-back hipster atmosphere. The furniture was space and spacious with bean bags and weird circle puffs were also scattered about in corners and under windows and a small stage at the back of the large room where people would come play music or the occasional poetry slam.

What really draws the crowd is what happens when the sun sets. The floor is cleared of all seating, save for a few booths that lined the walls, and the lights dim and the music and poetry switches to anything from hardcore rock to house music to a folk band that one time. The bizarre mixture between day and night attracted all kinds of crowds and cliques from campus, as well as the locals based in the small college town. The fact that they didn't look too hard at your ID didn’t hurt either. It also helped that Clarke had grown fond of the owner, Anya and her brother Lincoln.

            Tonight, she takes her usual spot at the bar and leans over to get Lincoln's attention. "Hey Linc! How's business going?"

            "Clarke!" He slides a drink to a waiting girl before walking over, "Busy night as usual. Can I get you your usual?"

            She shakes her head, "No thanks, I'm actually buying a drink for a friend." She hitches her thumb behind her toward Bellamy, "I'll take a Dropship special."

            Lincoln raises an eyebrow but reaches under the bar to grab a bottle of gin, some tonic water, and blackberry syrup. Within moments he has a small glass filled with liquid that goes from clear to gradients of blue to black. He plops a ball of ice in it and slides it her way.

            "Thanks, Lincoln." she reaches for her wallet, but he shakes his head.          

            "For you, on the house." He smiles.

            "Thanks!" she offers him a smile in return. He turns to serve the next person when she stops him with a touch on his arm, "Uh Lincoln? You haven't seen Finn, have you?"

            He shakes his head, "Not lately. Want me to let you know if I do?"

            "Uh, not exactly." She bites her lower lip, "If he shows up, could you act like you didn't see me here tonight?"

            He gives her a look, but just nods his head, "Sure, Clarke."

            She hops off the stool with a nod, "Thanks, I owe you."

            He smiles and returns to another customer at the lower end of the bar. Grabbing Bellamy's drink, she makes her way through the crowd and towards where Bellamy is leaned against the wall beside the dance floor. His arms are crossed with a frown on his face like he was dragged here against his will. The roll of her eyes inevitable.

            "You do know that this was _your_ decision, right?" she shoves the drink at him, "You could at least act like you enjoy being here."

            His grimace deepens as the music quickens its tempo, "The music tonight sucks," he yells over the crowd.

            "What's the matter? Not into…" pauses to listen, "Post- death metal?"

            He laughs, "No, not exactly." He takes a sip from the glass before raising an eyebrow, "Why are you?"

            "Not even remotely" she laughs.

            They fall into an easy conversation, mostly small talk involving what kind of music they _do_ like; Clarke couldn’t tell you how much time had passed, but soon the heavy bass of the music faded to the low rhythm of a piano followed by the soft croon of a singer.

            "Oh my god." Clarke cuts Bellamy off with a hand over his mouth and listens. "I love this song."

            He pulls her hand from his mouth and smirks, "I can see that, Princess." He listens for a bit before shrugging, "Can’t say that I know it."

            She frowns slightly, but says comment. Her eyes wander to the makeshift dance floor, seeing that the crowd had thinned out reasonably but still contained a lot of people swaying to the gentle beat. She could feel her own body begin to sway with them, but she stays put. Bellamy pushes her forward a bit, knocking off her rhythm.  She turns around to scowl at him, but the small smile on his face gives her pause.

            "Go on." She gives him a confused look, "Go dance, you moron." He rattles his now empty glass in hand, "I'm going to get a top off."

            She hesitates for a second longer before he nudges her again. This time she smiles and slips herself into the crowd. The song was one she found in the weeks after Wells in her attempts to numb herself to the world by drowning everything in music. At the time, it didn’t matter what she listened to just that it was loud enough to silence all the thoughts racing in her mind. That it was loud enough to silence the guilt eating her alive.

Perhaps that is why this song had stuck out so much, its slow melancholic beat a sharp contrast to the thunderous bass that had filled her for days on end. At first, she went to skip it, but the moment the singer’s voice filtered through her earbuds, the words stopped her cold. It was a song about grief and inevitability, though not at all like hallmark phrases that promised it would all get better. No, this song sang the truth, each word a plea for her to understand that sometimes you didn’t get better.

            She cried the first time it finished and played it again. Then again. Over and over until the words stained themselves on her mind and dripped down her face with the tears she hadn’t shed since the funeral. She grieved, the song on a constant loop until her phone died hours later.

Hearing it now as she squeezes past a few couples, makes her heart thrum in anticipation of the cathartic release she craved. She finds herself at the heart of the dance floor. The singers voice drops off and the steady sound of a piano accompanied by a guitar fill the air sending a ripple through her skin at the emotion behind the riff. Her body sways gently left and right, eyes closed and losing herself in the music.

Every thought in her mind silenced when the singer returns as the lyrics wash over her and a tear slides down her cheek. But she ignores it, continuing to sway with the music and losing her mind to the melody while it lasts. Because it always ends and reality is waiting on the sidelines waiting for the next dance. Still, her heart sang with every word they sang.

A warm body press behind her and strong arms wrap around her waist, trapping her against his chest, but she doesn't care.  She wants to remain lost in the music for just a little longer. When singer's voice begins to fade, Clarke knows that it's time to return to reality. She tries to peel herself from mysterious dance partner, but his arms just tighten around her.

            "Clarke." His breath is hot against her ear and her stomach drops as she recognizes the deep rumble. Finn had found her.

            "Let me go, Finn!" She struggles against his grip, managing to break free and turning to face him. It only takes one look to knows he's wasted, his hair in more of mess than usual and his pupils are so blown his eyes look black.

            "Clarke, _Clarke_. I need to talk to you." His words are slurred.

            "Go home, Finn. You're drunk." She moves to leave when he grabs her wrist, _hard_.

            "Princess, please. I _need_ to."

            She tries to pull away but his grip tightens. "Ouch, Finn! You're hurting me!" She tries to pry away his fingers, but it's no use.

            "Clarke."

            "Just leave me alone, Finn."

She's begging now, tears threatening to spill over from the frustration welling in her chest. The last thing she wants is to make a scene around them, but she can already feel eyes begin to turn toward their struggle. Pulling her wrist again, Finn's nails start digging into her arm. She lets loose a small gasp of pain before another hand grabs Finn's wrist and squeezes.

            "I think you better let go, _Collins_."

            There was only one person who still called Finn by his surname (and only ever in that tone) and sure enough as her eyes trail up the arm holding Finn’s, there was Bellamy. His is jaw tight, the muscles in his arms taunt, and his figure threateningly looming over the two. Still, by far the most threatening feature is his eyes ablaze with fury.

            " _Now_." His voice a low growl.

            Finn lets go and yanks his arm away from Bellamy, "What's your problem man. 'is got nothin' to do with you"

            He ignores him turning to Clarke as she rubs her wrist where Finn was gripping. "Are you okay?"

            She blinks at his concern but nods, "Yeah, I'm fine. Look he's just drunk, let's just go."

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she urges him to go. At first it doesn’t look like he is going to listen as his eyes flick from her to Finn and back, but when she prods him a little harder, some of the tension leaves his shoulder and she knows she won.

            "Yeah, let's go." He places a hand against the small of her back that most _definitely_ does _not_ send shivers down her spine and guides her off the dance floor and through the crowd.  Before they can make it to the door, Finn is at their heels yanking Bellamy's hand away from her back and causing them to spin around.

            "Wha' the hell? We fight and you go off to his bed?" he scoffs, "Didn't know you were easy, Clarkie."           

            His words are like a slap in the face. How _dare_ he call _her_ easy, like _she's_ the one who was caught with _another_ woman. She can feel the tears boiling in her eyes from anger. "How dare-"

            Before she can finish, Finn is sprawled across the ground cradling his nose. She looks over at Bellamy whose face is twisted in fury and his fist clenched and raised for another punch.

            "Bellamy!" She puts her hands to his chest and tries to push him. "He's not worth it."

            He takes a step forward and Clarke pushes with all her might, " _Bellamy!_ "

His eyes snap down to hers and she jump at the sight of hatred behind them. She swallows her surprise and hardens her own gaze.

"Let's go. _Now_." She tosses a look behind her shoulder at Finn who is sitting up with his arm pressed under his nose and a crowd of people gathering around to see what's going on.

            It takes Bellamy a second before the rage begins to dissipate and the muscles in his body loosen as the tension melts. He takes one last look at Finn before tersely nodding his head and turning for the door.  A sigh of relief she didn’t know she was holding slips from her lips before she turns away from the crowd and moves to follow.

Lincoln’s eyes catch her own from behind the bar and he raises a brow in a silent question. She shakes her head no and mouths a quick sorry before disappearing out the door after Bellamy.

 

* * *

 

            "Clarke. I told you I can drive." Bellamy scoffs from the passenger seat.

            Clarke slips her eyes from the road and gives him a look, "Oh I heard you the first three times. Doesn’t necessarily mean I believe you.”

            “But-”

            “You nearly broke Finn’s nose.”

            "Collins was out of line." He spits the name off his tongue.

            “He was _drunk_.”

            “Doesn’t mean he gets a free pass. It doesn't excuse the way he was acting." his jaw tightens, "Or the way he was speaking to you.”

            “No, but it does mean he didn’t know what he was doing.”

            “Why are you _defending_ him?”

            “I’m not!”

            “Yeah, right Princess,” he sneers, “Tell me, were you actually buying into the shit he was saying? I mean, he seemed pretty repentant right up until he was calling you _easy_.”      

“ _Fuck you_ ,” she snarls, but he continues.

            “I thought you were smarter than that Clarke. Didn’t peg you as one to settle for less than what you deserve.”

            “Deserve?” She pauses, the sharp words dying on her tongue as his words register and she falters. "Is that what this is about? You were defending my _honor?_ "

            The anger fades to absurdity and a manic laughter begins to bubble in her chest because _really_.

"Oh that's rich! Bellamy Blake, defending Clarke Griffin." The laugh that escapes her lips is sharp and incredulous. "You must be drunk."

            "And why wouldn’t I?" he challenges, “Say what you want about me, Princess, but I’m not one to just sit back and watch a girl be harassed.”

            She thinks back to the field—thinks of the gentle way his arms wrapped protectively around her and the soft reassurances murmured against her hair. And suddenly it wasn’t that absurd anymore.

            "No, you're not. " It comes out softer than she means it to, too much like a whisper to be anything but sincere. She stares a moment longer before turning back to the road, the charged moment diffused. "You're still an ass though."

            This earns her a shocked chuckle, "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Thank you," she says after a moment.

            She’s sincere, but it’s almost as if the pressure in the air is too much as he brushes it off with a quick quip of, "Just doing my job, Princess."

            "Oh?" she raises an eyebrow, letting the mood shift away from the too close atmosphere that had taken over the too small space of the car. "And what exactly is that?"

            He smirks, "Don' t you know? I'm the knight in shining armor. Ready to save any damsel in distress."

            "Too bad for you I can handle myself just fine without you."

            "You don't say, _Princess_."

            "I do. You better watch yourself, Blake. Next time it will be you laying on the floor." She grins at him, "I don't need a knight."

            His eyes rake over her slowly, "I guess you don't." His voice is soft and so low that she almost doesn't hear it.

            She looks over again and his eyes lock with hers. She takes in his face. His hair is tousled with curls twisting this way then that, jaw for once not locked, causing the lines in his face to soften and his deep brown eyes swimming with what looks like admiration and a mixture of something akin to desire. But that couldn't be right, this was Bellamy. Bellamy who had a string of girls to pick from. One of which was _not_ Clarke.

            "Princess?"

            She jumps at his words and quickly returns her eyes to the road. She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn.

            "Were you just checking me out?" he smirks

            "What? No!" she answers almost too quickly.

            "Look, no need to be embarrassed. I know I'm incredibly handsome. " he laughs, "I'm surprised you haven't made a move yet."

            "Please," she scoffs, "Someone thinks highly of themselves."

            "I'm not blind." he shrugs. She rolls her eyes but says nothing. After a few minutes of silence, he continues. "Uh, where are we going, Princess?"

            "You’ll see." She pulls up to a cliff and sets the car in park.  "I figured I kind of owed you for you know _defending my honor_ and all that."

            "And where exactly is here?"

            She opens her door and nods her head out, "Come and see." 

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he joins her outside the car and in front of the hood. Beyond them was view of the city surrounded by the tall trees of the forest. The sky is littered with stars and the skyline twinkles with the light from the city below.

            "Wow." he breaths. She can't help the grin on her face when she turns to face him.

            "I know right," the city light dances off her eyes as she breathes in the city below "Monty, Jasper, and I found it one day while out driving."

            "Quite the spot, Princess," he murmurs, eyes just as caught on the skyline as her own.

            "That's not even the best part," she ducks behind a couple of rocks off to the side and remerges with a bottle in hand.

            "What's that?" Bellamy asks skeptical.

            Clarke's grin grows wider, "Some of Monty and Jasper's brew. They've taken a liking to making moonshine."

            Bellamy laughs, "Of course they would."

            She pops off the lid and takes a swig of the liquor. It burns her throat on the way down, settling in a warm pool of liquid at the bottom of her stomach and sending a warm flush racing through her body. Absently she wonders if she’s had a chance to eat today. Her face twists into a grimace. Bellamy smirks, mistaking the grimace for distaste yet reaches his hand out for the bottle anyways. He takes a drink only to spit it out the moment it touches his tongue.

            "Jesus! What the hell do they put in it! It tastes like battery acid!"

            She can't help but laugh and snatch the bottle away, "No idea, but it gets the job done." she takes another drink and offers it to him again.

            "No thanks, Princess. One of us should be sober enough to drive back." he smirks

            She shrugs and takes another drink, "Suit yourself, Bellamy." She can already feel the familiar fuzziness of the moonshine take place.

            "So, tell me, Princess." Bellamy leans against the hood of his car, "What’s eating you tonight?"

            She blinks confused, "What do you mean?"

            "Don't get me wrong, what Finn did was an asshole thing to do, but" his eyes hold hers, "Clarke Griffin doesn't break down for just one guy. Not the Clarke Griffin I know anyways." He pauses and her breath hangs on every word. "So, what else is it?"

            “Why do you care?”

            “I don’t.”

            “So why are you asking?”

            His face twists in annoyance, “Look answer or don’t. I was just pointing out a fact.”

            Clarke turns away to stare back at the horizon, eyes skipping over the city lights in an effort to avoid the truth in his words. _What’s eating you._ Everything. She's being eaten alive by _everything_. She knows it is better to be silent, to let it remain unspoken in the air around them, but the alcohol has loosened her tongue and she settles on the first thing that comes to mind.

"Wells." This time she leans against the car next to him before taking another drink. "I lost the last bit of family I had left."

            They stand in silence.

            "I'm sorry."

            "You didn't know. No one really did." She caps the bottle and sets it down (she was already beginning to blur the lines between city and trees together).

 "He died a couple of months ago across the damn country. Away from his family and friends. _Away_ from _me_." She pauses to collect herself. "He died _alone_."

            "Clarke…" his voice is tender.

            "It was a school shooting."

She pauses, remembering the day she saw it on the television and how hard she tried to reach him. How she kept calling and calling, just hoping he would pick up. He didn't.

"We were supposed to have a Skype call later that day, but he missed it and I was angry. He tried calling and calling, but I wouldn't pick it up. Next thing I know, I'm sitting in the Drop Ship when a surprise news report comes on announcing that there was a school shooting at his university. He was in the library when a little kid came in and just started shooting. He was dead before he even hit the ground."

She can feel a tear slip down her cheek and she quickly moves to brush it away. "So just my luck that it would turn out that my boyfriend has another girlfriend not soon after."

 She laughs bitterly, "I must be cursed. Can't keep a damn guy in my life without them ending up either dead or an asshole."

Her mind flickers to her father, but she pushes it down, unable to follow that line of thought for long.

            "Clarke." There is pain in his voice, "I'm _so_ sorry."

            She lets his condolences wash over them, lulling them into a softer quiet than the one that once enveloped them before. Her mind trying to stave off the ghosts of her past while struggling to remain in the present. But the ghosts are too close to ignore and she finds eyes welling up as the familiar sense of panic claws up her throat. It takes a moment to clamp her lips tight against it, shoving the feelings back down deep in her chest. Another more before she can take a breath without feeling like it’s going to split in her in half. One more to want it not to.

She leans her head against his shoulder, finding it too hard to hold up on her own, "Thanks, Bellamy."

“Anytime, Princess. Like I said it’s my job.” He winks.

            Groaning, she moves to shove him away, but the movement does more to throw her off balance than it does move him. She pitches forward, arms wind milling in attempt to keep herself upright, but the moonshine has made her movements slow and her balance nonexistence. Bellamy reaches out to still her, his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest. Her eyes immediately find his as her owlish gaze widens at the realization of how close they were. Perhaps that is the reason she sees his eyes linger on her lips before flicking back to her face, pupils blown ever so slightly.

            Her heart races, eyes widening as a devilish grin grows on his lips. She can't be blamed for her own eyes falling to his lips and staying there. (They _were_ right there after all.) He leans in and she finds herself leaning in as well. Just before their lips can touch he moves them to her ear and whispers, "No need to fall for me Clarke."

            Her whole face burns with embarrassment as he pulls away and smirks at the sight of what he caused. She punches him in the chest.

            "Very funny, _Bellamy_. Taking advantage of a poor intoxicated girl’s addled state of mind."

            "Believe me, Princess. I wouldn't have to get you drunk to get you to want me."

            "Oh it that so?" She crosses her arms defiantly, "I'd like to see you try."

            His eyes sparkle, "Is that a challenge, Princess?"

            She meets his gaze, a smirk on her own lips. "Nope. Just a fact."

            He laughs, "My, what a brave Princess." He pushes himself off the car. "Okay, time to go before you do something stupid."

            She purses her lips, "Like what? I'm not _that_ drunk." She stumbles as she stands up from the car, "Just a bit tipsy."

            He grabs her elbow to steady her. "All the same, Princess. Time to get you back before the clock strikes midnight."

            She lifts her head and squints her eyes at the moon. "Too late for that."

            Bellamy chuckles and guides her to the passenger seat of the car.

            He opens the door and she slides into the seat. _Maybe,_ she thinks, _Bellamy isn't_ that _bad after all._ Bellamy slides into the driver seat and starts the car.

            "If you throw up in my car, you're dead."

            She rolls her eyes and rests her head against the glass.  Never mind _._

 

* * *

 

            It's not until she is snuggled into her own bed (of which she had no recollection of getting into, nor how she even made it into her own dorm) that she finds herself curled up in the corner with her sketchbook tucked in her lap and a pencil wrapped in her fingers. Her hand drags mindlessly on the page, pencil creating line after line as an image slowly begins to take form. She thinks, just as her eyes start to sink, that it looks a little like Bellamy, his face smooth and calm as the skyline dots in the background. She dreams that the freckles on his cheeks dance in the soft lights of the headlights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I'm so sorry for the huge chapter, there was just so much to say about this one! Thank you all for reading so much and I'll be back as soon as I can with the next chapter! I love you all so much and thank you for the Kudos!


	3. What's Left of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A run in with Finn and an argument with her mother, leaves Clarke desperate for an escape. Luckily Jasper and Monty have just the solution. Also someone drops in for a little visit at the Student Union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG guys I'm super sorry that this chapter is so late! I took off a few days for Easter to relax a bit then it turns out I had to split this chapter or otherwise it would have been SUPER long and this one is already 11k words! Either way I hope you enjoy the chapter and I hope to see you at the end!

By the time Clarke manages to open her eyes, it's noon and the sunlight is pouring in through her open blinds and hitting her face. She yanks her comforter over her eyes and groans. Her head is throbbing with each passing moment of consciousness.

            "I'm going to kill Monty," she mutters, turning herself around to avoid the sun when something falls off her bed. "What the hell?"

            She sticks out an arm and fumbles around touching the ground trying to find the source of the noise. After tossing a few objects aside (a shoe, a book, and what she thinks was a box of cereal) she finally peeks from under the covers. Her sketch book is laying face down on the floor causing a few pages to bend. She reaches for it, but it is just beyond her fingertips. She scoots closer to the edge and tries again. Still too far. She leans over the edge and just as her fingers brush the spine, she falls out of bed.

            "Damn it!" she curses. She contemplates just staying there when she looks back over to the sketchbook. "Might as well…"

            She snatches the book and slides it into her lap. Her eyes fall onto a sketch she had done of Finn with his head tossed back in a laugh and his eyes closed. She felt the familiar pull of her chest and flipped back a couple of pages to see a sketch of Monty and Jasper at eye level with a flask bubbling over a Bunsen burner. She remembers that day, they were screwing around in the lab long after everyone had left, and like everything else they did, it ended in disaster. Like kaboom disaster.

           She can't help but laugh as she remembers them babbling excuses to the Lab instructor as to why they were mixing together unstable chemical without supervision. The best they could come up with was "For Science!" They got suspended from the lab for a month. She flips forward a few more pages, avoiding those she had drawn of Finn when she comes across something new. It's a rather poor drawing of a bell with what appeared to be arms and legs. She looks a little closer and she can see a face drawn on the front of the bell. The face has two little circles for eyes with no nose, but freckles where it would be. It isn't until she stares at the frown that she makes the connection. Bellamy Blake.

            She stares at the crude little drawing a moment longer before erupting into a huge fit of laughter. The lines may be rough and smudged in some places, but she was sure it was a caricature of Bellamy Blake as a bell. Her mind flashes back to Bellamy and her leaning against this car with her head on his shoulder. _Bell_. That's what she called him.

            "Bell." She licks her lips. "I like the sound of that." She can't help but grin deviously. (Oh does she have an idea!) She flips to a clean page and looks around for something to write with. She spots a pack of pens laying on top of her dresser and she quickly snags them before dropping back down on her bed with pen in hand. Oh was he in for it.

 

* * *

 

            She strolls into the Student Union office with a smile plastered on her face and her creation in hand. With a quick sweep of the rooms with her eyes, she can see that Bellamy hasn't arrived yet. She can't help it when her grin grows wider. She practically skips over to Bellamy's desk and only stops to wave at Miller whose desk sits opposite of Bellamy's.

            Unlike how Clarke got on with Bellamy, she loved Miller. He was a tall guy, standing at about 5'11" compared to Bellamy's 6'0, with a caramel skin tone and kind brown eyes. He kept his hair short and usually stuffed under a grey beanie he wore no matter what the weather was. (It drove her crazy in the summer months) The most distinct feature about Miller was that he was a man of few words, (it had taken her the better part of the year to get him to say more than a few words to her at a time)  but when he does decide to speak, he is always very genuine. Not to mention straight to the point, something she needed more of in her life.

            "Morning Miller!" she beams at him. 

            He raises an eyebrow, "You sure are chipper this morning."

            "Oh you know," she fans her face with the page, "Nice day and all that."

            His eyes follow the paper in hand, "What's that?"

            "This?" her smile widens to the point she's sure she is going to split a lip, "Just a little gift for Bellamy that's all."

            She turns the page over for him to see and he smirks. "I'm sure he's going to _love_ it." He rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop.

            She laughs and bends down over Bellamy's desk, pulling a pen from the cup next to his monitor. She quickly scribbles a note on the page before tearing off a piece of tape and sticking it on the monitor for him to see. She takes a step back and admires her work. _Perfect._ She turns on her heels and practically skips out of the room, tossing a small wave to Miller. This was going to be a great day, she could already tell.

(Clarke would later find out that when Bellamy finally does arrive and sees her little "present" he smirks and gives Miller a dangerous look telling him that this meant war)

 

* * *

 

            Okay, so today wasn't going to be her day. After her little initial fun with Bellamy's gift (what she would have paid to seen his face when he saw it! Damn final) her final proved to be more difficult than she originally thought it would be. She should have studied harder instead of worrying about Finn and his stupid face and Bellamy and his stupid eyes and stupid words of kindness (Urgh when did her life get so complicated with boys). She's pretty sure she passed, but she needed an A in that class to make sure she got over a 4.0 this semester (So she's a perfectionist, don't judge her). Then after her final, she had to turn in her final art project, which of course wasn't in her bag, meaning it was back in either the Student Union office or back at her dorm. And of course, she only had time for one trip. After careful thinking (and possibly the flip of a coin) she decided to chance the Student Union office. _Hell_ she thought, _At least I'll get to see Bellamy's reaction._ She smiled to herself. So maybe her day is starting to look up again.

            She pushes open the door to see everyone crowding around her desk. She hesitates in the doorframe for a moment before pushing through to see Bellamy sitting at her desk with his feet kicked up and his arms folded behind his head. A smirk spread on his lips when he caught sight of her.

            "Why hello, Princess." He smirks, " _Loved_ the gift." Her eyes drop to the face down paper on the desk.

            "Bellamy." her voice is low and dangerous, "What the _HELL_ did you do to my desk!!"

            Her usually messy and cluttered desk was now spotless except her photo, a pencil cup, Bellamy's feet, and the page. She frantically swiped his feet off before pushing him back to search in her drawers for her books and missing art final. What she found was neatly stacked (but what she assumes to be completely unorganized) papers and books shoved underneath. It would take her forever to sort through this all to find her final! She whips around to face Bellamy, who is now leaning against the edge of her desk.

            "YOU JACK ASS! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" She was furious. She didn't have time to hash it out with him now. Her class was starting in 5 minutes!

            He shrugs playfully, "I was just returning the favor, Princess. After all, this is such a _lovely_ drawing you did."

            He holds up the paper in her face. The page showed a sketch she did of Bellamy with his head as a bell and an exaggerated smirk on his face as he flipped his hair out with one hand and his other on his hip. She even signed it and left a little note saying, _For Bell, the Cockiest of all bells._ Clarke found it hilarious. Bellamy apparently didn't.

            She shoves his hand away, "I have to turn in a final project and now," she waves a hand in the direction of her desk, "I can't find it because you decided to 'organize' my desk!"

            His jaw tightens and his smirk falls, "I _did_ organize it! It was a complete mess before I got through with it!"

            "Please," she scoffs, "We all know that this isn't organized, it just looks nice!"

            "Better than the pigsty that it was before!"

            "Where the hell is my final at, _Bell_!"

            "How should I know, _Princess_!"

            "So help me God, Bellamy, if I don't find that final, I'm going to _end_ you!"

            "I'd like to see you _try_!"

            " _Geez_! I've never seen someone rile you up like that, B. Well except for me, of course." Both Clarke and Bellamy turn around to find a small girl with bright hazel eyes and long brown hair framing her face staring at the two of them. She had a smirk on her face (that eerily echoed the one on Bellamy's face earlier) and her hands on her hips.

            "O!" Bellamy quickly scoops up the girl in his arms, a huge smile on his face, and twirls her around. The girl giggles and her eyes light up with delight as he sets her back down. "What are you doing here?"

            She throws her arms up, "Guess who finished her finals early!"

            His smile widens and his eyes shine with what Clarke could only guess was pride, "That's my girl!" He engulfs her in another hug, but this time she lightly hits him on the back until he lets her down.

            "Honestly, B. I'm not a child anymore!" She scolds, but the smile on her face contradicts her tone.

            Bellamy rolls his eyes and smirks, "Sure, O. Whatever you say."

            She gives him a venom-less glare before spinning around to Clarke and sticking her hand out, "Hi, I'm Octavia!"

            Clarke takes her hand hesitantly and shakes it, "Hi, uhh, I'm Clarke…"

            Octavia's eyes sparkle with interest, "Oh! So you're _the_ Clarke!" She turns to Bellamy before punching his arm, "You didn't tell me she was so _pretty_!"

            Clarke blushes and Bellamy just scoffs, "That's because she isn't. She's vicious, O. Didn't you hear her? She was just threatening my life a moment ago!"

            Clarke's blush quickly fades to anger as she sticks a finger at him, "I _will_ end you, Blake if I don't get my final!"

            "I don't have your final, _Princess_." He retorts.

            "No, because you lost it in this nonsense!"

            "Well maybe if you didn't keep your desk such a _mess_ , you'd be able to find it, now wouldn't you!"

            "Well maybe if you left my desk _alone_ , then I'd know exactly where it was!"

            He crosses his arms in front of his chest, "Well _maybe_ if you didn't draw me that _lovely_ picture, I wouldn't have felt the need to return the favor!"

            Clarke takes a step forward and points her finger in his face since clearly, she couldn't look him dead in the eyes without craning her neck up. (Damn his height) "Now you listen here, Blake-"

            "What drawing?" Octavia pipes in.

            Miller, who had long since returned to his desk, points to the paper that somehow ended up on the floor between Octavia and  Bellamy, "That one."

            Both Bellamy and Octavia look down at the paper and back at the other person. They hold each other's gaze for a moment before they both dive down to grab the paper. They become a tangled mess of limbs and hair as they scramble for the page.

            "Back off, O!"

            "No, I want to see!"

            Octavia manages to snag the paper from Bellamy's reach and holds it up in victory, "HA! Take that, B!" she dances around the room parading around her prize. She skirts away from Bellamy as he tries to snatch it from her grip. "Oh no, I _need_ to see what's got your panties all in a twist." She holds the page to her face and stares at the drawing. It's not long before she cracks up in a fit of laughter and Bellamy just drops his head in his hand and groans.

            "You drew this?" Octavia gestures at Clarke and all she can do is nod her head, trying to keep her own grin under control (it's not working.)

            "Brilliant! I love it!" Octavia throws an arm around Clarke's shoulders, "I've decided, you're my new friend!"

            "O!" Bellamy groans.

            "What? Anyone who can stand toe to toe with you and still manage to push your buttons is definitely someone I want on my side!" She throws a grin at Clarke, "So what do you say?"

            Before Clarke can answer she hears the chime of the courtyard clock from outside the window, "Shit! I'm late!" She turns back to Bellamy, "I need my final, _now_ Bellamy!"

            "Like I said, Princess, I don't know what final you're talking about!" he snarls.

            She runs a hand over her face before taking a deep breath, "It's a single page covered in random grey smudges on both sides. Last _I_ saw it was between my sociology textbook and an art book."

            Bellamy looks at her for a moment before opening one of the drawers and digging through it. Finally, he pulls out the single sheet that Clarke described. "This it?"

            Clarke snatches it from his grasp, "Yes! Thank god!" She quickly puts it away in her bag before turning for the door. "Hopefully I can make it in time!"

            "I'll join you!" Octavia chimes in taking off after Clarke.

            "O!" Bellamy calls after her, but she ignores him.

            Clarke, while she doesn’t know exactly who this girl is or _why_ she wants to follow her, but the look on Bellamy's face makes her not want to question it. "Bye," she smirks, " _Bell_."

            The grimace she sees on his face before she dips out the door makes her being late totally worth it.

 

* * *

 

            Somehow Octavia joining her for class turned into lunch, which turned into coffee after lunch and that's how Clarke found herself tucked in a booth across from her new found friend at the Dropship (It’s really becoming a problem how often she comes here). In the short time that they've spent together, Clarke has learned three things about Octavia. One, she is the other Blake and almost nothing like her older brother (thank god), Two, she was a year younger than Clarke and was a Freshman at a neighboring school, and Three, she wasn't like _anyone_ Clarke has ever met before. Octavia was vivid and passionate but tough as a nail and would attack anyone who posed a threat to those she cares about.

            "So tell me about you!" Octavia says after a sip of her coffee.

            Clarke puts her own down, "What exactly do you want to know? I'm not the most interesting person in the world."

            "I doubt that!" she scoffs, "Anyone who stands up to my brother is at least _somewhat_ interesting."

            Clarke can't help but laugh at that. Her relationship with Bellamy was definitely _interesting_ , to say the least. (Explosive would be a better word). "Okay, uh, I'm an only child. I am a second year at Arc University but technically I'm a Junior credit-wise."

            "Wow, we've got a genius over here!" Octavia laughs, "Your parents must be so proud."

            Clarke's smile drops and she lowers her eyes to her cup, "Yeah."

            "Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to bring up anything that made you uncomfortable…"

            Clarke gives her a small smile, "No it's okay, you couldn't have known." she sighs, "It's just that my mother and I haven't seen eye to eye in a long time."

            Octavia shifts back in her seat, "Yeah I understand that. B and I argue like cats and dogs most of the time, but he's family, you know? I love him."

            "Yeah," Clarke notices how Octavia's eyes soften at the mention of Bellamy, "I do."

            "So, what about your dad?"

            Clarke's eyes drop again.

            "Shit. I'm so sorry! " Octavia brushes her hair aside and gives Clarke a small smile, "I'm just going two for two today, aren't I?"

            "No, it's not that. My Dad and I used to get along great. He was my best friend actually, but…"

            "He died." Octavia finishes.

            "Yeah."

            "I'm sorry." Clarke looks up and sees the pity in her eyes (God how she hated the damn _pity_ ), but behind that laid a glimpse of her own pain. "B and I lost our own mother awhile back too. When we were still young." she pauses, "She was the only family we knew, our dad was a total deadbeat, so when we lost her, all we had was each other."

            "I didn't know that." Clarke lays a hand over Octavia's. It wasn't pity earlier, but sympathy. "I'm sorry too."

            She gives Clarke a smile before squeezing her hand, "Thank you." She abruptly pushes herself back before bringing her cup to her lips and taking a dramatic drink, "Enough of the sappy shit! Tell me, Clarke, why _does_ my brother call you _Princess_?"

            Clarke couldn't help the involuntary eye roll, "Because he's an ass?"

            "We both know that isn't the truth." Octavia grins. Clarke raises an eyebrow, "Okay so maybe he is, but he didn't pull that out of his ass. He had a reason." She leans closer, "So spill!"

            Clarke sighs heavily, "Okay fine." She rests back in her seat, "So it all started the beginning of last year. I had just joined the Student Union and we were all sitting around playing an ice breaker." Her mind flashes back to Freshmen year to her first day at the Student Union office. She had been so excited to get involved and perhaps make a few friends. What she got instead was Bellamy. "It was some stupid game where we all had to write down facts about our lives and then guess who wrote what." She remembers the smirk on Bellamy's face when he read hers out loud, "For lack of better idea, I wrote what my parents did for a living."

            "What do they do?"

            Clarke sighs, _here we go again_. "My mother is Chief of Surgery at Jaha Memorial and my father was an engineer." She pauses and waits for the inevitable.

            Octavia raises an eyebrow, "A rich kid huh?" She laughs, "Well now, Princess makes sense."

            Clarke grimaces but says nothing.

            "Hey, I didn't mean it like that. So you got money," She shrugs, "Big deal. You seem pretty okay to me." She cracks a smile, "Not at all like a _princess_."

            "Uh well..." Clarke doesn't know how to bring this up, let alone _if_ she should bring it up at all.

            Octavia tilts her head slightly but says nothing. She waits patiently as Clarke forms a coherent sentence. "I'm not actually." When it's clear that she misses the point, Clarke elaborates further, "Rich. I'm not rich. In fact, I don't really have much to my name at all." She laughs bitterly.

            At this, Octavia seems to be taken off guard, "But, I thought your mom…"

            "Cut me off before I even started college." Clarke looks down, "Apparently she wasn't going to waste thousands of dollars on someone who wouldn't talk to her. Even sealed away the money left to me by my Dad until I'm 21."

            "Geez. I know you said you weren't on good terms with your mom, but damn." She shakes her head, "That's just cold hearted."

            Clarke just shrugs, "She thought it would make me listen, to see her side of things. She was wrong."

            "What a bitch," Octavia says curtly and Clarke can't help but laugh causing her to join in not soon after.

            "Wait," Octavia's head tilts in confusion, "If you're broke, how the hell do you afford to go to ARC University? I mean the school is not the _cheapest_."

            Clarke just shrugs and takes a sip of her now cold coffee, "Got a full ride and I draw for extra cash when I need it. That or I pick up a shift here and there at this dinner down the block."

            "A genius _and_ an artist." Octavia grabs her free hand, "Teach me your ways!"

            Clarke laughs and pulls her hand back, "It's not a walk in the park you know. I'm always doing homework or studying."

            Octavia scrunches her nose, "Ermm, maybe not then!" They both laugh and Clarke notices that Octavia's cup was running low.

            "Did you want some more?" Clarke asks as she rises, "My treat." She offers a smile.

            Octavia eyes flicker with what can only be mischief, "Actually I want some of that!" She nods her head in the direction of the bar, now barista counter because it's still in the afternoon.

            Clarke follows her gaze to see Lincoln standing behind the counter, not so subtly looking over at their table.  In fact, Lincoln almost never works the day shift, it was always Anya. She doesn't remember the last time she's seen him in broad daylight before. His skin isn't the same tan that it is under the colored lights of the bar at night and he's wearing a short sleeved shirt that hides some of the tattoos covering his shoulder. He is also sporting a beanie, something she's _never_ seen before, daylight or not.  She catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly forming on her lips. He quickly looks away, his tanned skin turning a slight tinge of pink.

            "He is the essence of _man_. I mean look at those _muscles_!" Octavia grins, "I want him."

            Clarke can't help but laugh, "His name is Lincoln. He and his sister own this place."

            Octavia's eyes sparkle, "So you know him, then!"

            "Yeah, he's a friend." 

            Octavia pulls Clarke's arm and drags her back down, "Tell me everything!"

 

* * *

 

            By the time Clarke manages to get back to her dorm, it's already late into the evening and most of the commuters have long since returned home. Clarke can still hear Octavia's voice ringing in her ears as the girl asked question after question, grilling her for information on Lincoln. She knew the girl was talkative, but how _fast_ she talked had to be a damn sport! (Clarke's still not sure how she managed to get a word in, let alone answer any of those questions.) Luckily, Octavia's phone kept ringing and ringing, despite ignoring the first two calls, and when she finally decided to answer, she was stuck listening to a ranting Bellamy (Clarke could practically hear the exasperation in his voice) until she decided it was best to return back to the school. They departed ways only when she made Clarke promise to hang out again soon. While Clarke liked Octavia, she hoped soon meant at least a few days. (Her ears could only take so much at a time!)

            Clarke steps into the lounge only to see that it's unusually empty, save a few unoccupied laptops sitting on the coffee table. She shrugs and turns the corner to her hall when she notices a familiar mop of hair slumped against her door. _Finn_. She debates turning around and going back out, but after listening to Octavia, all she wanted was to sleep in her bed. She sighs and makes her way to the room.  Finn immediately turns around and quickly climbs to his feet by the time she reaches the door.

            "Clarke." he tentatively reaches for her face, "I'm so glad I caught you."

            She roughly pushes his hand away, "Go away, Finn." She digs out her keys and unlocks the door only for Finn to grab her wrist.

            "Clarke," his eyes plead with her own, " _please_."

            Her eyes held his for a second before she feels something in her chest crack. With a sigh, she leans against the frame of her door, "What do you want from me, Finn?"

            "I want _you_ , Clarke." his hand cups her face, "I still love you."

            Her chest pulls tighter. God how she wanted to hear those words. She stares into his eyes and sees the sincerity of his words swimming in them. She wanted nothing more than to kiss away the pain and have him kiss away hers, but it wouldn't happen. He wasn't hers.

            "Do you love her?"

            His hand drops and his eyes flash with regret, "What?"

            "It's a simple question, Finn." She sighs suddenly tired of it all, "Do you _love_ her."

            "Clarke, I-" his words fall short when he catches her eyes. "Yes."

            She swallows, her tongue suddenly not fitting in her mouth properly, "Okay." She pushes the door open, but he takes a step forward following her retreat.

            "Clarke-"

            "No, Finn!" She snaps, "You don't fucking get to have _both_ of us. You need to choose!" He shrinks back at her words, "It's either me or her." Her voice cracks at the end and she has to press a hand to her eyes to prevent the tears from spilling over. God, how she hated the way he made her crumble apart. How pathetic he made her sound. Why couldn't he just leave her _alone_!

            "Clarke…" His voice is low, causing her to meet his eyes once again. It was a mistake. She could see his answer even before he spoke. "I can't." he pauses, "I can't choose, Clarke. Raven, she's… " he shakes his head, "I can't lose her, Clarke. She's _family_."

            _Family._ It echoes throughout her head. _What was she then? Was she just a game, then? Why did he ever kiss her then?_ She takes a step further in the room, but this time he doesn't follow. _Of course, he wouldn't_ , she thinks, _He never belonged to her. It was always Raven. It will always **be**_ _Raven._

"Goodbye, Finn." her voice barely makes it over a whisper.

            "Clarke," his eyes swim with unspilled tears, "I love you _more_."

            The tiny piece of her mask crumbles away and a tear slides down her cheek, "No, you don't because then you wouldn't have broken my heart."

            She closes the door and slides down to the ground. The tears are running freely down her cheeks and her quiet sobs make it hard to breathe. She can feel Finn through the door leaning against the thin barrier.

            "Clarke, _please_ , open the door, Princess." his voice cracks, "Don't shut me out."

            She clamps her hand over her mouth to stifle the broken sobs escaping her lips.

            " _Princess._ "

            Tears are running down her fingers and her chest heaves with each staggered breath. _No more. NO MORE_! She's screaming in her mind. She can't take this anymore.

            " _Clarke._ "

            She curls into herself and buries her face into her knees. He doesn't leave until an hour later.

 

* * *

 

            There is a knock at her door, but she ignores it. "Go away" she mumbles too softly for anyone to really hear. Another knock. She lifts her head and stares at the door as if it personally offended her. The last thing she wants is someone seeing her in such a mess. There is another knock and finally, she musters up the strength to pick herself off the floor and yank it open. Whoever was at the door was about to get a lot more than they bargained for.

            "What?!" She screams.

             A very startled Monty looks back at her and Clarke's anger disappears. She regrets not checking who was at the door before opening it, Monty didn't deserve her anger. (The boy was practically a saint minus his illegal drink making ways)

            "Shit. I'm sorry Monty." She runs a hand through her hair, "I didn't know it was you…" She casts her eyes down, ashamed. Monty is looking at her with a sense of regret in his eyes. She knows how she looks, red blood shot eyes that are still slightly puffy, tears staining her cheeks, and her whole face still a slight shade of pink. She self-consciously wipes her cheeks. "Did you, uh, need something?"

            Monty looks at her with sorrow, "Yeah…" He holds out his phone and she looks confused. Why would she need his phone? "It's your Mom."

            Clarke's heart drops (As if she didn't think it could fall any lower.) "What?"

            Monty's shoulders slump, "Look I'm so sorry to drop this on you now, after…." He waves at her appearance,  "whatever the hell happened to you, but she called and demanded I put you on the phone. I tried to make something up, but well, she's persistent."

            Clarke looks at the phone but doesn't move to take it. Of course, her mother wants to talk today of all days. What happened to _today was going to be a great day_? She debates refusing the call, but when she raises her eyes back to Monty's, she knows she can't. Her mother would just keep harassing him until she answered. She couldn't do that to him. She sighs and takes the phone from Monty.

            "Thanks, Monty." He gives her a look like he just broke her favorite toy, "Hey." She puts a hand on his shoulder, "This isn't your fault. It's just…" she laughs bitterly, "A _bad day_."

            He holds her eyes before nodding sullenly, "I'm still sorry."

            She squeezes his arm, "Thanks. I'll return the phone later, 'kay?"

            He nods his head and slowly disappears down the hallway. She raises the phone to her ear and listens to the other line. She can hear her mother's steady breaths before she speaks.

            "Clarke?"

            "Hello, Mother."

            Her mother sighs angrily,obviously put out by her tone. "Clarke! Do you know how long I've been trying to call you?!"

            She resumes her spot on the floor by the door, "No idea, I told you not to call remember? Besides, I kind of had, uh, an accident with my phone and haven't been able to get a new one just yet."

            "And you didn't think you should _call_ and tell me this? At least let me know you were okay and not dead in a ditch somewhere."

            "I've been busy."

            "Yeah," she scoffs, "That's the reason why. Clarke when are you going to give up this silly little grudge you have against me?"

            "Silly little grudge?" It was Clarke's turn to scoff, "You think that's what this is? That I'm just throwing a temper tantrum? You _lied_ to me. For two years." 

            "I did not lie." She was using her Chief of Surgery voice, the one that was cold and clinical and left no room for argument.

            "Yes," Clarke spits, "You did."

            "Clarke!"

            "What do you want, mother?" She sighs and hits her head against the door. She just wants this conversation to be over already.

            "I want you to _come home_."

            "No."

            "Clarke-"

            " _No_. Did you honestly think that it'd all just be okay? That I would find this all out and just _forgive_ you?" She laughs, "You know for someone who is Chief of Surgery, you're really naïve."

            "I did what I had to, Clarke." Her voice is steel on the other line.

            "Yeah and now Dad's dead."

            "Don’t you dare pin that on me, Clarke. He made his own decisions."

            "Because you drove him to it!"

            "Enough!" the other end goes quiet for a minute, "I'm done talking about this. Come home, Clarke."

            She thinks of home. Their big house on the end of the street. A huge front yard with a big oak tree that she used to spend hours drawing over and over again. She remembers her father sitting on the porch watching her with pride and the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her. No. That place wasn't home anymore. Not without him.

            "I don’t have a home anymore."

            "Clarke-"

            "No, MotherI'm not going back."

            "Clarke Griffin, now you listen to me-"

            "Or what?" She laughs curtly, "You'll disown me? Oh, wait you already _did_."

            "Well, what other choice did you give me?! You packed your things and left for _art school_. You threw away your entire life for what? Some little fantasy?!"

            She can't help but laugh at this. Her mother didn't know that Clarke was still pursuing medicine and she'd be damned if she ever told her differently. "What the hell do you know? You're too stuck in your precious hospital to know anything different!"

            "Clarke!"

            "I'm done talking to you." She lowers the phone from her ear, but she could still hear her mother's final shriek.

            "Don't you dare hang up on me!"

            She taps the end call button. She drops her arm to the floor and stares at her ceiling. _Finally_ , she sighs, _Peace and quiet_. The phone buzzes in her hand and she groans. WHY! Suddenly Clarke hears Lil John and what can only be the rhythm to LMFAO's _Shots_. Clarke's eyes immediately drop to the phone to see an unflattering picture of Jasper staring up at her. Despite everything, she can't help but laugh at the whole situation. It doesn't help that by the time she manages to pick up the phone the song had reached the point where it was screaming SHOTS repeatedly.

            "Hey, Jasper. It's Clarke. Sorry Monty lent me his phone."

            "Oh, I know! Monty's right here." She hears a muffled Hi Clarke before Jasper continues," I called to talk to you."

            "Oh. What did you need? Wait hold on." She can't help but grin (Jasper and Monty always had that effect on her) "Did you know that you're ringtone is _Shots_ by LMFAO?"

            Jasper laughs, "Oh yeah totally forgot about that! You should hear the one I have for Monty!" Clarke hears Monty yelling something about that was _one_ time!

            "Anyways, what are you doing right now?"

            "Uhh," Clarke looks down at her toes then around the room, "Sitting on the floor. Why?"

            "Come over! I whipped up a new- OW! Okay! _We_ whipped up a new batch tonight and you _have_ to try it! It's my best one yet! OW. Stop hitting me Monty!" The two begin to bicker on the other end.

            Clarke hesitates. God knew she could use a drink, but at the same time, she didn't feel like being around anyone. She just wanted to be _alone_.

            "No."

            "Huh?" she snaps back to reality.

            "You're not going to be alone tonight. Monty told me about the phone call." Of course, he did, "AND about how he found you even before you talked to the she-beast." She rolls her eyes at his nickname for her mother. (He'd been using ever since Clarke told him how she cut her off.) "You need booze and enough of it to blackout today." She could hear the smile on his face, " _Or something strong enough to do the job quicker._ "

            She laughs, "Okay. But if this batch sucks as much as the last one, I'm going to be pissed."

            "Shut up you _loved_ our last batch!"

            She grins. It's true she did.

 

* * *

 

            She knocks on Monty and Jasper's door and it swings open so fast that Clarke barely has time to register them dragging her down the hall with a knapsack in tow.

            "Whoa! Where are you taking me?" Clarke asks looking between the two, "I thought we were going to try some of your new batches?"

            "We are!" Jasper beams at her, "But it always tastes better with more people!"

            "Oh no!" Clarke digs her heels in and forces them to stop, "You didn't say anything about other people!"

            "Oh come on Clarke! I met this really cute girl and she invited us over to her room!"

            She rolls her eyes, "So you want me to go hang out with people I don't know so you can flirt with a girl?" She shakes her head, "Uh-uh. No way."

            "Pleaseeeeeeeeeeee, Clarke!" Jasper whines.

            "No."

            "It'll be fun, Clarke. I promise." Monty chips in.

            "No way." She crosses her arms.

            "Oh come on, Clarke! For me?" He gives her his best puppy dogs eyes and (damn it) she breaks.

            "Fine!"

            Jasper literally jumps for joy, "Yay!!" He loops his arm through hers and begins to drag her down the hall once again, Monty in pursuit.

            They end up two levels up and on the opposite side of the building when Jasper finally stops at a door. Jasper grins and knocks on the door. Clarke hears some shuffling on the other side of the door and after a few seconds the door swings open. The person standing in the doorway was definitely not a girl. Jasper's smile drops almost as fast as Clarke's jaw.

            Bellamy Blake stood in the doorway, shirtless with his jeans riding low on his hips.

            "Why hello there, Princess." He smirks, "Enjoying the view."

            Her jaw snaps shut and her cheeks burn, "Nothing new." She tries to come off nonchalant, but the way her eyes slowly dip below to his abs (Man was this guy fit!) gives her away.

            His smirk widens, "My eyes are up here, Princess."

            "Bellamy?!" Jasper finally manages to sputter, "Where's Octavia?"

            "Octavia?" Bellamy's eyebrow shoots up, "What do you want with O?"

            Before Jasper can speak, Octavia ducks under Bellamy's arms and jumps at Clarke with a hug. "Clarke! I didn't know you were coming!"

            Clarke pats her back awkwardly, "Uh, yeah. Monty and Jasper dragged me along. Though," she slides her glance to Jasper who is still dumbstruck at the whole scene, "he didn't tell me it was you, he was seeing."

            "Well, it's not like we knew you knew each other." Monty offers.

            "Touché." Octavia pulls away and grabs Jasper's hand, "Did you bring it?"

            That seems to snap him back to reality as a grin dominates his face, "Right here!" He raises the knapsack he is carrying.

            "Best batch yet!" Monty promises.

            Bellamy, who everyone kind of forgot about, clears his throat, "So let me guess. You all just show up to _my_ room _uninvited_ with illegal alcohol and you expect me to let you in?"

            Clarke turns to him and shrugs, "I _was_ invited."

            "So was I." Monty chimes in.

            They both turn to Jasper who grins, "So was I."

            "By who?" He growls.

            "Me!" Octavia smiles and shoves Bellamy aside with a hit bump. "You're in the way!" She drags Jasper in behind her and Monty follows.

            Clarke can't help the smile on her face as Bellamy registers what exactly just happened. She pats his shoulder lightly before ducking behind him as well, "Thanks for having us, _Bell_." She laughs at the way his face twists into a grimace.

            She saunters into the room and plops herself on one of the beds. After all that time she spent on the floor she wasn't so keen on returning there. She look around. There isn't much to the décor, a few poster from different bands plastered onto the white wall, clothes thrown haphazardly about the room and what looks like empty beer bottles lining the windowsill. There were some history books, mostly stuff about the Romans if the titles were anything to go by, on the dresser next to the bed she claimed, but otherwise it was a typical guy's room. Octavia and Jasper are on the floor next to the bed opposite of Clarke and Monty has claimed the other bed, albeit taking a small portion the edge away from its other occupant, Miller (Funny he never mentioned that he roomed with Bellamy). Miller offers a smile and small wave at Clarke when she settles. Bellamy shuts the door and spins around and looks at Clarke as if she killed his dog.

            " _What_ are you doing?"

            She shrugs, "Sitting?"

            "That's _my_ bed, Princess. Go sit on Miller's." He yanks a shirt off the edge of the bed and pulls it on.

            "Miller and Monty are sharing it already. Don't be a hog, Bell."

            "Yeah, Bellamy, don't be a hog!" Jasper mimics

            "A hog?" He scoffs, "May I remind you whose room this is?"

            "Mine." Miller offers and Bellamy shoots daggers at him.

            "See, Miller doesn’t mind if we're here." Jasper grins, "Come on, _Bell_ , let's have some fun!" He holds up a mason jar.       

            Bellamy glares at the bottle and is about to say something, but Octavia cuts him off.

            "Oh come on B! Let's celebrate! Finals are over and it's now officially broken!!"

            "Hell yeah!" Monty chimes in but Miller snorts.

            "They're not going anywhere, Bellamy. Just give up."

            "He's right." Jasper agrees, pulling another jar from his bag

            Bellamy glares at him. "I could _make_ you leave."

            "Okay," Clarke chimes in with a clap, "Enough of that! I was promised booze and _you_ ," she points a finger at Bellamy, "Bell, aren't going to ruin that. Not tonight!" She pats the bed next to her, "You can park it, or leave."

            He smirks, "Are you kicking me out of my own room, Princess?"

            "No, I'm offering you strong booze and drunken shenanigans. "

            His eyes held hers but he slides onto the bed next to her. "You know," he starts, "usually when I get a girl in my bed, it's for an entirely different reason." His eyes do a quick once over and he smirks.

            "Not a chance in hell, _Bell_." She deadpans, "I'd rather cuddle with Miller over there."

            "Hey!" Miller yells, "I'm a great cuddler, I'd have you know!"

            Clarke laughs, "I'm sure you are, Miller!"

            "Okay, enough with the disgusting flirting!" Octavia interrupt and holds her own mason jar up to Bellamy, "You in or what, B?"

            "Fine." he sighs, "But I'm not drinking that shit."

            "Hey!" Jasper and Monty chime in together.

            "Sorry, boys, but I've had a taste of your moonshine before. Not something I want to do again."

            "Our moonshine is amazing!" Jasper defends and Monty just shakes his head, "Lightweight."

            Clarke can't help but laugh at Bellamy's face at being called a lightweight, even Miller joins in. Bellamy glares at them both before bending over his bed and opening his fridge.

            "Excuse me for caring about my liver just a _little_ bit." He pulls out a bottle of Devil's Cut Whisky. "Now _this_ is a drink!" He opens a drawer and grabs out a glass to pour himself a drink.

            Miller scoffs and bends down to open his own fridge, "Please!" he grabs a bottle of Captain Morgan from behind a wall of water bottles, "Rum is where it's at!"

            "What happened to No alcohol on campus?" Clarke jokes. They all look at her as if she _really_ just said that. "Shut up," her cheeks burn, "Give me a jar, Jasper!"

            He digs around in his bag before he pulls out a jar with a pink bow tied to it. The liquid is also uncharacteristically pink, unlike all the other jars that had a clear liquid. She glances at the bow and gives him a quizzical look. He smiles sheepishly before shrugging, "Thought that after your bad day, you deserved a little something special."

            She grins and takes the bottle from him, "Thanks, Jasper."

            "Anytime. At least _someone_ appreciates my genius moonshine making skills."

            "Well…" she crinkles her nose, "It gets the job done that's for sure!"

            Jasper looks at her as if she stabbed a dagger into his chest, "Clarke!"

            "I'm kidding, Jasper! I love your moonshine!" She twists off the lid and brings the jar to her lips, taking a big swig. The liquid burns its way down her throat and settles into her stomach. "Jesus that's strong!" She takes another sip, albeit smaller than before, "Is that strawberry?"

            Monty grins this time, "My addition! Tastes amazing right? Best batch ever."

            "I want to try!" Octavia jumps in twisting her lid off her own and before anyone can stop her, she takes a big _gulp_ of the liquid. She almost chokes on the liquid, sending a spray in Jasper's direction. "OH MY GOD!"

            Clarke can't help but laugh, "Yeah, you can't actually _drink_ Jasper's shit." Monty's coughs and gives her a pointed stare, "Sorry. You can't actually drink Jasper _and Monty's_ shit. It's all done in sips." She waves her free hand around, "Think of it like wine except less fruity and more likely to get you wasted in about 10 minutes."

            Jasper wipes his face with his shirt sleeve, "Yeah maybe you should have _started_ with that Clarke!"

            "Well, maybe you shouldn't make this stuff so strong!" Bellamy barks huddling down by his sister and rubbing her back as she coughs up a lung.

            "It's moonshine!" Jasper complains

            Monty and Clarke just nod their heads in agreement, but it's Miller who speaks up, "He's got a point." Bellamy hurls a pillow at his face, "Don't blame me for pointing out the obvious!" He dodges another pillow.

            "You okay, O?" Bellamy asks once Octavia stops coughing.

            "Perfect. Just maybe I'll take it slower next time…" She clears her throat and takes a much smaller sip. "It's actually not that bad." Bellamy raises an eyebrow in doubt but Jasper just grins.

            "See!" He turns to Monty and hey both share one of their mischievous grins, "Best. Batch. Yet!"

            Clarke shakes her head and takes another sip. She could feel the soft haze creep towards the edges of her mind. It was comforting. The phone call with her mom and her run in with Finn didn’t seem as important anymore.

            "Let's play a game!" Octavia suggests.

            Miller, who is busy pouring himself a glass of rum, looks over, "What kind of game?"

            "A drinking game, of course!" Octavia smiles.

            Bellamy rolls his eyes and grabs a glass from one of his drawers, " _What_ drinking game, O?"

            She smirks, "Guess my major."

            Clarke leans against the wall  behind her and lowers her drink, "Never heard of it."

            "Me either." Jasper pipes in.

            Octavia scrambles to her feet and begins digging into the drawer Bellamy pulled his glass from. "Okay, the rules are simple. Each person had to try to guess who is majoring in what." She pulls free a shot glass and holds it for everyone to see "You get one guess for each person and if you get it wrong," She dramatically flips the shot glass upside down "You down a shot, preferably with Jasper and Monty's  moonshine to make things interesting. If you get it right, the other person has to take a shot."

            Jasper grins, "Sounds like fun. I'm down."

            "Hold up," Monty tilts his head, "There are like a million things a person can major in. The odds are hardly in our favor. Not to mention some people already know another's major." He throws a look at Jasper and Clarke. It's true they both knew each other's majors and the game wouldn't work well that way.

            Octavia rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips, "Fine! New rules. You can't guess if you know their major already _and_ you have to give the general subject as a hint."

            This time Bellamy groans, "Not fair. My general subject _is_ my major!"

            Octavia throws her hands up, "Then for Bellamy, you have to guess his focus! Jesus! Can we play now?"

            Miller laughs and opens one of his drawers and pulls out a few more  shot glasses, "I'm in."

            Clarke scoots closer to the edge of the bed so that her feet dangle off the side, "Why not."

            "Count me in!" Monty smiles taking a couple of glasses from Miller and handing one to Jasper.

            Everyone turns and looks at Bellamy. His jaw is set in defiance, but one look at his sister's pleading eyes and he's a goner. (Bellamy could never refuse Octavia) He pulls a couple more shot glasses from his drawer (Why the hell do they have so many shot glasses? Must be a guy thing) and passes Clarke one.

            "Let's do this."

            Soon they are all in a little circle and  Jasper is topping everyone off with one of the extra jars he brought along. Clarke fills her own with the strawberry moonshine. Once they all have a shot, Octavia demand everyone has to take at least one shot to start the game. _After all it's a drinking game_ , she protests. Monty, Jasper and Clarke easily down the first shot, but Miller, Bellamy and Octavia grimace as the liquid slides down. Clarke smirks, she was a pro at drinking games, especially when they involved Monty and Jasper's moonshine. (If she wasn't winning at least it would take her more shot to be _completely_ out of the game.) Jasper tops them all off again and Clarke refills her own.

            "Okay! So who wants to go first?" Octavia asks cheerily.

            Bellamy smirks, "Why don't you go first."

            "Fine." Octavia rolls her eyes, "My hint is government."

            "Ooo!" Jasper wiggles excitedly, "U.S. Government!"

            "Nuh-uh!" She  shakes a finger, "Drink up, buddy."

            Jasper grumbles but takes his shot in grace. Miller takes a guess next.

            "This is stretching it a bit, but Economics?"

            "Nope!" she pops her lips on the p.

            Miller grimaces and takes a shot.

            "Political Science?" Monty offers and the smile on Octavia's lips falls.

            "Right…." she tosses her head back and downs her shot, scrunching her face as the liquid crawls down her throat. "Your turn."

            "Okay. Hmm…" Monty rocks back gently, "Science, technically."

            Clarke rolls her eyes. Out of everyone's, she thinks Monty's will be the hardest to guess.

            This time Bellamy takes a shot, "Biology?"

            Monty shakes his head and gives Bellamy a small smile, "Sorry."

            Bellamy takes his shot in silence. Clarke follows the way his adam's apple bobs slowly. He was getting better, but the way his jaw tightens tells her that is wasn't enough.

            "Chemistry!" Octavia jumps in.

            Monty freezes and shoots a glance at Jasper and Clarke. She shrugs and throws her hands up, "I mean it's close right?"

            Jasper is nodding his head thoughtfully, "I mean it's a branch…"

            Monty thinks for a moment before throwing his head back and gulping down the shot, "I guess it would be kind of mean to make them guess the whole thing."

            Both Jasper and Clarke nod their head in agreement, but the rest of them look confused.

            "What's your major?" Miller asks.

            "Biochemical Engineering." Monty says simply and Clarke swears she could hear them all choke on air.

            "Seriously?!" Octavia asks in disbelief, "Wow! That's quite the major."

            "No kidding." Bellamy nods his head.

            Miller nudges Monty's shoulder with his own and smiles at him, "Look at you, some sort of genius! Never would have guessed." Clarke swears she sees Monty's cheeks turn a slight shade of pink before he goes to refill his glass.

            "You're next, Miller." Monty returning the light shove.

            "Fine." He leans back, "Law."

            "Criminology." Clarke guesses immediately. He just looks like the cop type. Miller's face drops and he glares at her. Guess she was right. He downs his shot.

            "Okay, Griffin. You're up."

            Bellamy smirks, "This should be easy."

            "Not exactly." Jasper chimes in.

            Monty agrees, "Yeah, Clarke is kind of unique in this department."

            "What does that mean?" Bellamy asks.

            "It _means_ , I'm a double major, Bell." Clarke rolls her eyes.

            "Seriously?" Octavia tilts her head, "What the hell is in the water here!" She points at Monty, "We have Mr. Biochemical Engineering over here and now this?" She sighs heavily, "How do you find time to have fun."

            "You find time." Clarke shrugs.

            "Could have fooled me." Bellamy mumbles.

            "What was that, _Bell_? I couldn't quite hear you." She spits.

            "Nothing, _Princess_." He smirks.

            She narrows her eyes at him, "You get first guess, now."

            His eyes sparkle with challenge, "Lay it on me, Princess."

            "Pre-med science." she smirks, "And _other_."

            His jaw tightens, "That's not fair!"

            "Sure it is," She shrugs and leans back on her hands, "The subject would be too easy for the second one."

            Bellamy glares, "Fine, but then I get _two_ guesses."

            "Fair enough."

            He sits and thinks for a moment. Jasper and Monty are quietly laughing to themselves and Miller flicks his eyes from her to Bellamy back and forth, a huge grin spreading slowly on his face. Octavia just sits back and enjoys the show.

            "Anatomy and math." He finally states.

            "Wrong."

            Bellamy glares as Jasper lets loose a loud cackle. Clarke grins, _Man this is good_. "Next guess, Bell."

            "Give me a moment." She rolls her eyes but waits patiently.

            A slow grin spreads on his lips, "Of course, why didn't I think of it before." He turns and fully faces her, "Art. Your other is _art._ " The grin drops off her face, _damn it_. "Ha! I'm right!" he smirks, "As for your pre-med, I don't know, Biology or something."

            Monty and Jasper erupt into a fit of laughter, "Drink up, Clarke!"

            She glares at them an tosses her head back downing the shot without taking her eye off the pair.

            Bellamy looks at her with a smug look, "Seriously? I got it right?"

            Clarke shrugs and pours herself another shot, "Close enough."

            "What's the real answer?"

            "Biomedical Engineering and Art."

            "Oh just biomedical engineering," Octavia throws her hands up and mutters something under her breath before taking a shot. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, "I needed that if I'm going to continue being around you two and still feel somewhat smart."

            Clarke rolls her eyes and  nods towards, Bellamy, "You're turn…" she smiles, "Bell."

            "Fine, but you get first guess, Princess." He echoes her words from earlier.

            "Bring it!"

            "You know the rest of us are also playing this game." Miller interjects.

            "Shhhhh!" Jasper flails his hands in front of Miller's face, "This is way better than some stupid game."

            "Hey!" Octavia yells.

            "He doesn't mean it, Octavia. He's like a child watching cartoons. It's tunnel vision." Monty comforts.

            "Give me your hint." Clarke says, ignoring the others.

            Bellamy smirks, "History."

            Clarke's brows furrow together. There is about a million things you could focus on in history. Wars, Us. History, World History, European History, hell even ancient civilization…. _Oh._ She grins mischievously and leans closer. "Okay. Hmmmm. What could it be…" Her eyes flicker to the stack of books laid on top of his dresser and back to meet Bellamy's gaze. His eyes dance with amusement and smugness. He doesn't think she'll get it.  She raises her hand and touches his arm lightly.

            "The. Roman. Empire." She casually walks her fingers up with each word and his face just drops. All sense of smugness replaced with genuine surprise.

            Octavia laughs and rocks back on her tailbone. "Drink up B!" He shoots her a glare before turning it on Clarke when she laughs.

            "How'd you know?"

            She points over his shoulder to the stack of books, "Dead giveaway when you have roman empire books next to your bed."

            "That's cheating!" he argues.

            "Please! You're just a sore loser." She grabs his shot glass and raises it to his face, "Come on, Bell, drink up!"

            He looks from her to the shot and grins. She should have know something was wrong right there and then, but the fuzziness had gotten stronger after her couple of shots. He presses his lips to the glass and slowly tilts his head back until she is pouring the liquid down his throat, her fingers gently brushing against his lips.

            "Thanks, Princess." He smirks when she pulls the glass back.

            Before Clarke can respond, Jasper bouncing with excitement, "My turn! My Turn!"  She glances at Monty and raises an eyebrow. Apparently Jasper couldn't be bothered to wait for everyone to finish with the game before taking more shots. He was already tipsy at this point.

            "Science, go!" He grins sloppily.

            "Chemistry?" Octavia guesses.

            "Nope, but that _is_ how I met Clarke."

            Octavia turns to Clarke, but she just shrugs, "It's true. We met in our Chem class freshman year."

            Octavia takes a shot as Bellamy guesses, "Astronomy?"

            "Nope."

            Bellamy's face grimaces but he takes another shot.

            "Physics?" Miller guesses.

            "Hey you got it right!" Jasper grins, "Time for another shot!"

            "NO!" Clarke and Monty 's hands shoot out to stop him from drinking and Clarke takes the shot away, "I think you've had enough." She sighs.

            "But the rules, Clarke! I must!"

            "I don't think, Octavia would mind…" Monty rolls his eyes.

            "But!"

            "Here." Clarke tosses back the shot and winces once it hits her stomach. The fuzzy cloud in her brain was starting to take over, "Now you don't have to do the shot since I did it for you." She hands the empty glass back to Jasper and he frowns.

            "But I wanted to do it!" he pouts and crosses his arms like a two year old.

            Monty rolls his eyes but pats him gently on the shoulder, "Next time, man."

            "Well, now that _that's_ over!" Miller grabs his bottle of Captain Morgan, "Who want a _real_ drink?"

            "God me!" Octavia practically scrambles over to Miller, "Too many smart people!"

            Clarke laughs, "You don't even know the half of it." She hikes her thumb over to Jasper, who has practically wrapped himself around Monty to get the mason jar he is holding just outside his reach, "That one is focusing on Quantum Mechanics. I say he's the smartest one of us all."

            Everyone turns to her dumbstruck, " _Seriously_?" they all say in unison.

            "Hey! I'm smart damn it!" Jasper cries.

            "Yeah, he's just an alcoholic." Monty teases.

            "Shut up! Give me my shine!"

            Clarke plucks the jar from Monty's hands, "I think you've had enough." She swishes it around and sees that it's already more than half gone. "Jesus, Jasper! How'd you even get this far without us noticing!"

            "Forget that! How is he still breathing?" Bellamy asks taking the jar from her, "This stuff could kill a horse with much less."

            Monty rolls his eyes, "Jasper's a master drinker, albeit only after he gets drunk."

            "Tell me about it." Clarke murmurs as she unscrews the lid of her own jar and takes a sip.

            "And how are you still upright? You've had quite a bit yourself." Octavia says between a sip of rum.

            "Clarke is a beast! She can drink anyone under the table!" Jasper laughs almost falling over in the process. "She even beat out Monty."  
            Monty just nods his head. "It's true."

            "I bet she couldn't be B! He used to out drink everyone back home. Even a few truckers." Octavia laughs. (Apparently Jasper wasn't the only one getting tipsy.)

            "No way! Clarke would definitely win!" Jasper defends.

            "Nuh -uh!"

            Clarke rolls her eyes at the two and takes another sip of her drink. Bellamy's eyes fall on her and he smirks.

            "What do you say, Princess? Think you can take me on?"

            She rolls her eyes, "Oh, I know I can."

            His eyes sparkle, "Prove it."

            She lowers her jar and thinks for a moment. At the rate she's been going, she wasn't in her best condition. Hell he could probably out drink her in just a few more shots. She decides against it.

            "No thanks, don't need to." She raises her jar to her lips once more,

            "What happened to the brave Princess, I knew?" he taunts.

            Well no he's gone and done it. (You do remember how she can't step back from a challenge, right?)

            "Are you challenging me, Blake?" She sets her jar down, "Because if you're challenging me, you  better put your money where your mouth is."

            This earns her a grin, "Oh I'm definitely challenging you. Hell I'll even make it easier." He grabs the bottle of whisky  and pours two shots and places them in between them. "Whisky instead of that battery acid."

            "How much?"

            "20 bucks."

            Clarke's eyes sparkle with the same shine as Bellamy's, "You’re on."

            Beside them they can hear Miller whispering to Octavia, "10 bucks Clarke wins."

            "15 bucks says, Bellamy kicks her ass." She retorts.

            "Jasper and I bet 20 bucks each that Clarke out drinks Bellamy by at least 5 shots." Monty joins in.

            "Deal."

            They all shake hands and watch as Clarke and Bellamy shoot down shot after shot. By the end of the night Clarke is 20 bucks richer and Monty and Jasper are short 40. (Turns out it was 3 shots instead of 5 so Miller won the pot.)

 

* * *

 

            By the time they finish their little drinking match and everyone had settled down after divvying up the winnings, (Clarke got a portion since she did all the heavy lifting) everyone had crashed randomly about the room. At some point, Clarke had climbed back onto the bed and was sprawled out on the blankets. Drinking had been a bad call on her part as a drunken cloud drowned out any and all coherent thoughts. She even scooted aside without fighting when Bellamy manages to pick himself from the floor and landed face first on a pillow. He mumbles something in the pillow. She giggles, _actually_ giggles (Clarke Griffin does NOT giggle.) and pushes on his head until he turns onto his cheek to face her.

            "What?"

            "I said, damn  Princess, you can drink." He smiles.

            She laughs and wiggles so her body is a hair's length from his. She would usually feel awkward this far into his personal space, but apparently drunk Clarke had no problem with it at all. In fact she can feel her fingers brush lightly against his cheek.

            "What are you doing, Princess."

            "Looking at your freckles." She tries and count them all, touching each one softly, "They're like stars." She drags her finger over a few that make a w shape, "Look here's Cassiopeia." she breathes.

            He reaches for her hand and grabs it in his. He holds it there for a moment before dragging it down slowly. She thinks she spots regret in his eyes, but that may just be the moonshine. Suddenly she want to know more about the man who pushes her buttons yet has the stars on his cheeks.

            "Tell me something about you, Bell." The words tumble out before she can stop herself.

            He chuckles and she can feel his hot breath on the tip of her nose and the vibrations in her chest. "What do you want to know, Princess?"

            Her eyes drop to his cheeks again. They are flushed with a slight tinge of pink from the unconscionable amounts of alcohol they consumed. _Why do you have the stars in your face?_ She shakes her head and settles for something a bit more realistic, "Tell me what it was like growing up with Octavia as a kid."

            Bellamy's eyes light up. "Octavia was great. Ever since the day she's been born, she just had this fire burning in her." He chuckles at a distant memory, "She used to drive our mom up a wall with all her crying and running around. I'll tell you I've never seen a toddler run as fast as she could."

            He turns so his whole body is facing her now, "Like there was this one time where my mom was trying to get her in the bathtub and she just took off across the house butt- naked screaming that she doesn't want to! She was chasing her for a good five minutes before she's able to snag her and drag her into the tub!"

            She can't help but laugh at the thought of a tiny baby Octavia running around the house naked and screaming. "No she didn't!"

            "She did! Our mom would tease her for years about that! Even had a picture of her sitting all grumpy in the tub. Hung it up on our fridge and everything." His eyes lose their shine and something darker replaces it.

            She reaches up and touches his cheek lightly (what the hell was with her and her obsession over his cheeks?) "Octavia told me what happened, to your Mom. How you guys lost her when you were still young."

            "I was only 18. She had been working a double shift at the hospital," she must have looked confused because Bellamy elaborated, "She was a nurse. She did that a lot to try and make life as comfortable as possible for us, especially since any meager paycheck I brought in really didn't help much."

          He shakes his head softly, "Anyways she was working late and some guy came in with a gun demanding that they gave him  some prescription drugs or whatever and when my mom turned the corner she walked right into the whole mess."

            He pauses, his jaw tightening below her fingertips.

           "He shot her on the spot. Bullet went right through her stomach. There wasn't anything they could do by the time they got to her."

            "Bell," there isn't any venom behind the nickname this time, "I'm so sorry."

            He shrugs and looks away, "It's not your fault."

            She tilts his chin so his eyes meet hers again, "It's not yours either."

            He nods softly, but she can see that he doesn't truly believe it. He clears his throat and turns on his back and stares at the ceiling. She follows in suit and picks a spot on the ceiling to stare at. She notices that he plastered a bunch of glow in the dark dots all over the length of the bed. It looked like a starry night sky.

            "I lost my dad when I was 16." She can feel his eyes slide towards her, but she continues to stare at the stars, "He was sent to jail for stealing papers from his job because they were planning on releasing an unfinished machine that would have hurt a lot of people if it was released." She could feel a tear spill down her temple, "Going to jail it- it broke something in him."

            At some point Bellamy's hand had found hers and he gave her fingers a squeeze. She weaved their fingers together and squeezed back.

            "He looked so sad behind that glass window and one day I guess he couldn't take it anymore." She pauses and swallows down a ragged breath, "He hanged himself with his bed sheets." The tears were falling faster now, "He just left me, Bell. I was _16_. I _needed_ him and he just _left_ me."

            He squeezes her hand harder, "I'm sorry Clarke."

            "Yeah, me too."

            They remain silent for a while after that, both of them just staring at the ceiling and its small patch of stars above them.

            "You know," he finally says, "It's not your fault either." His eyes find hers and he holds her gaze, "I mean it. It's not your fault."

            She nods but much like her before, he can see she doesn't really believe it. They return their eyes back to the stars and lay in silence for the rest of the night, their hands still laced together holding on to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! Again I'm so sorry it took so long to get done! I will get right on the next one as soon as I can, I promise! Thanks again for the kudos and the comments! I feel the love and they brighten my day every time I get a notification! See you in the next chapter!


	4. Dancing on my Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of drinking games and late night conversations, hung over and hungry, Clarke finds herself trapped between Monty and Jasper at a local diner unable to answer Octavia's questions about her nonexistent plans over break. Luckily Clarke manages to deflect the questions and switch the topic. But can she deflect forever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first I'm SOO SORRY that this chapter is so late! I struggled a bit with the first part because I couldn't get words to work with me and then Finals happened and work picked up and I'm just so sorry this took the back burner!! BUT good news! I'm now out of school (b/c school is over not b/c I got fired) and I'm dedicating at least an hour before bed every night to finish this fic! 
> 
> Another thing to note is that I took down the predicted chapter count because I no longer know how chapters it is going to take me to get in everything I want. Don't take it as I don't know what's going to happen, but rather I want to get more out to you guys while also not trying to rush through the details sacrificing some of the story. I promise to try and wrap it up in less than 15 chapters if possible! 
> 
> So enjoy this part, even though it is smaller than the previous two! One again thank you for all the comment and kudos while I was away! They still bring light to my day and a spring to my step :)

There's a pounding in her head as she drifts back into the waking world. She can feel the sun on her eyelids, but she can't find the strength to open them. Her bones ache with a dull soreness from an awkward night of sleep at odd angles and the pulsating behind her ears drowns out the thoughts she might be having. (She really couldn't tell it was all a blur really) There is something warm pressed to her back and middle and she happily sinks into it, hoping that the heat will lull her back into unconsciousness. She snuggles herself deeper into what she thinks is a pillow (or perhaps a bunched up blanket?) and freezes when she comes into contact with a unyielding surface. _What the hell?_ She angles her head over her neck and reluctantly slides open an eye. Besides her is not a pillow nor a blanket, hell not even a _wall_ , but a firm chest pressed flush against her back. _Ohh.._ Lazily she turns back over and rests her head against the pillow. She snuggles into the warmth once more, but freezes mid-adjustment.

            _Oh god._ Her eyes snap open and her breath catches in her throat. _OH GOD_. She slowly looks over her shoulder once more to be greeted with the sleeping face of none other than Bellamy Blake. To say she panicked would be an understatement. She was practically a deer caught in the headlights. Here she was, back pressed to his bare chest (Jesus wasn't he wearing a shirt last night?!), his arm is thrown haphazardly around her stomach and the other tucked under the pillow she claimed as her own. She stays there for a moment just staring at his face unsure of what to do. His face is slack with sleep and all the usual pretenses of  his trademark smirk or causal indifference seemed to melt away. The usual lines in his forehead are gone, taking at least 5 years with them. _What the hell happened last night?!_ Her mind is racing back to the night before only to be met with a familiar haze of Jasper and Monty's moonshine. Her head throbs. Okay, forget about last night, _why_ was she wrapped around Bellamy of all people and exactly how much _did_ they have to drink last night? (Surely it had to equal that of a liquor store to achieve this)

            While lost in her highway of a mind, Bellamy shifts besides her and groans. She swears that if her heart didn't stop before it sure as hell did now. His forehead wrinkles as his lips pull into a slight frown. His arm tenses around her and she's sure he is about to wake up. Her mind panics as she tries to piece together words to explain exactly why she was pressed to his half naked self (Seriously when did he lose the shirt?!) in a suddenly very cramped twin.

            "Bell? I swear I-"

            She is cut off before she can continue, as he tug her tighter against his chest with his other arm and he buries his nose into the crook of her shoulder. He lets out a soft satisfied hum and the lines in his forehead smooth out. After the initial shock, she couldn't help the grin that spread onto her face. _Now this is interesting_. Bellamy Blake: a cuddler. She shakes with silent laughter. Big bad Blake likes to cuddle. She could feel the bubble of laughter rising in her throat, but she swallows it down. The last thing she needs right now is for Bellamy to wake up like this. (As if before wasn't bad enough!) His grip softens around her once more, and if there was any time to pull away this would be it. But she doesn't. She lays there and lets his warmth wash over her.

            She'd be lying if she said she hated the whole situation. In fact she craved it. The way the vibration from his hum rippled from her shoulder up to her throat. The way his arms wrapped securely around her waist and pulled her close. The steady beat of his heart drumming against her spine and the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. It struck  something deep inside of her that she thought was long gone after what happened with Finn. She missed this, the intimacy of having someone hold her as they slept.  The kind of possession, as they wrapped themselves around you, as if to physically tie you to them. She sighs and drops her head against the pillow (Now softer than it had been originally due to his arm moving to encircle her waist.) Was she really that desperate to take advantage of an unwilling (despite the death-grip he had earlier, she's pretty sure that if he was conscious he wouldn't be so keen on cuddling with her) Bellamy just to satisfy some trivial need of being held?

            She pulls away slightly, testing to see if the movement would stir him from his slumber. Nothing. She wiggles away a bit more, only to accidently make the bed creak under her weight. It wasn't a soft creak but one of those that should only happen in horror movies when someone steps on a loose floorboard. She cringes and waits before moving anymore. When it became clear that hell itself couldn't wake Bellamy, she carefully lifts his arm up and wiggles out of his hold. The loss of the heat sends a shiver down her spine. She crawls with caution to the foot of the bed and hauls herself into an upright position. Her head swims with the movement. Apparently, she isn't the only one that misses the warmth, because soon after she departs, Bellamy grumbles something into the mattress before rolling onto his stomach and into the warm indent of where she had laid.

            She bites back another laugh. He was so not going to hear the end of this. Her head throbs and she lets out a soft groan. _Okay seriously no more moonshine!_ The room is suddenly too bright, despite only a few rays of light entering the room from cracks in the blinds. She shields her eyes with a hand and surveys the room. Across the room, Octavia commands the remaining twin solely, sprawled out in a mess of blankets and limbs (How she managed to commandeer a whole bed to herself is a mystery of itself). On the ground Clarke spies another mess of limbs, this time belonging to the other occupant of the room, as well as the culprits behind her hangover. Miller and Monty are wrapped around each other, with Monty's head resting on Miller's forearm  and his nose buried into Miller's chest. Miller's other arm is wrapped around Monty's middle, holding him close to his chest and his head resting in his hair. Clarke can't help the small smile on her lips. _So much for the mysterious Nathan, I guess._ Wrapped around the two lovebirds, Jasper has an arm thrown over both Miller and Monty, with his cheek pressed sloppily to Monty's back. Clarke could already see the dark pool of drool from where Jasper's lips were slightly parted.

 _Idiots. All of them_. Clarke thinks to herself. She glances at the alarm clock beside Bellamy's stack of books.  9:00 AM. She glares. _Why the hell am I up?!_ As if on cue Bellamy groans and shifts in his sleep. Her glare turns on his sleeping form. _Of course it would have been you!_  (She may not have any proof but god be damned if that would stop her.) She scrubs her eyes  with curled fists and stares at the wall. She pushes herself off the bed and carefully tries to climb over Bellamy's legs. Before her foot could safely land on the floor, Bellamy turns and knocks her balance. She ends up sprawled face first into the pile of three very angry and very awake boys.

            "Ouch!" If her head was pounding before, it was now a roaring ocean of nausea.

            "What the _hell_ Griffin!" Miller barks, shoving her off of him with the arm he had draped over Monty.

            "Jesus! Are you okay, Clarke?" Monty mumbles sleepily, not bothering to removed himself from Miller's arms.

            "Clarke, you're crushing my leg, please get off." Jasper whimpers from below her. She  rolls onto her side and he slides his left leg from under her. "Thank you."

            "Don't mention it."

            "Would you all _Shut UP_!" Bellamy groans turns his head to glare at the four.

            " _Excuse me_? This is all your fault!" Clarke bites back, the boys wince beside her (obviously she wasn't the only one with a hangover)

            "And how exactly is that, Clarke?" He runs a hand over his face, "Please enlighten me as to how _you_ falling on them is _my_ fault." His voice drips with sarcasm" Truly, I'm all ears."

            Her jaw clenches ready to respond when it hits her. _Did he just call me, Clarke?_ Before she can ponder on it any longer he cuts in  again.

            "I'm waiting."

            "Well if _somebody_ ," she glares at him, "Didn't cling to me as I was trying to get out of bed, then maybe I wouldn't have tripped on my way down!"

            His face drops and she can't help but feel triumphant. It wasn't often one silences Bellamy. Though, just as quickly as it surprised him, his jaw tightens and his glare intensifies. It didn't stop her from noticing the slight flush on the tips of his ears.

            "I do not _cling_." He growls

            Clarke scoffs, "Oh yeah, you do. Total cuddle monster."

            "I do not _cuddle_ , Griffin. "

            "Hate to break it to you, _Blake_ , but you do." She hikes a thumb at Jasper, "You're even worse than this one."

            Jasper looks helplessly from Bellamy and Clarke, wanting to laugh, but not daring to actually do it. Apparently, Miller didn't have the same problem.

            "No fucking way! Bellamy Blake a cuddler?" he throws his head back in laughter, "No wonder you always make the girls leave before you sleep!"

            Bellamy growls at Miller, "You will shut your mouth! And you!" he whips his glare back at her, "Like hell I would ever cuddle you!" 

            Now that riled her. She stood up and crossed her arms in front of her chest, "Well hate to be the one to break it to you, but you did." Her eyes dig daggers into his, "So fucking get over yourself."

            He raises himself on to his elbows and levels her gaze, "You want to start something, _Princess_." (Ahh there it was.)

            "You already did, _Blake_." She wasn't going to be the one the back down this time.

            "ENOUGH!" Everyone jumps at the sound of Octavia's voice from the other end of the room, "Unless someone is dying or dead, you all need to shut the _fuck_ up. I have an entire marching band in my head and I don't need to listen to your bullshit." She wraps the blanket tighter around her head, "So if you feel the need to continue this stupid, argument, of which B you're a huge cuddler and you know it, kindly fucking leave."

            Jasper and Monty share a nervous glance, "Breakfast?" Monty offers.

            Jasper nods, "Breakfast."

            They take turns helping each other up before heading to the door. "Coming Clarke?" Jasper throws over his shoulder and Monty extends a hand.

            She glares once more at Bellamy before shaking her head and slipping her hand into Monty's. "God, yes."

            Octavia's head pokes from under the blanket, "Did someone say food?" Throws off the covers and scrambles after them. _So much_ _for sleep_ Clarke thinks as the girl links arms with her own.

            "Count me in." Miller grumbles pushing himself from the floor and slipping into the space beside Monty.

            "Awesome! Let's go to Grounders!"

            Monty and Clarke collectively groan, "NO!"

            "Oh come on!" Jasper pouts, "They have the best hangover pancakes!"

            Monty just rolls his eyes, "You say that every time. Aren't you sick of eating there?"

            Jasper blinks, "No?"

            Clarke groans, "For once I'd like to eat somewhere where I don't know the people serving me food!" (Remember Clarke saying that she worked at a diner sometimes? Well Grounders was said diner)

            "But you love, their hangover pancakes!"

            "No _you_ love their pancakes. I just get dragged along."

            "Pleaseeee" he gives his best impression of a kicked dog looking for love and damn it she gives in. (She is really going to have to work on saying no to that face!)

            "Fine! But you're paying for my meal!"

            "Deal!" He happily throws the door open, "Onward!!"

            "Now wait one fucking minute!" Bellamy growls and everyone turns around, suddenly remembering that he's there, "Where do you think you're going?"

            "Breakfast." Miller shrugs

            "Yeah, B. Keep up!" Octavia chimes in.

            "Not without me, you're not." he growls

            "I'm sorry, were you invited?" Clarke raised an eyebrow and turns to Monty, "Did you invite him?"

            Monty shakes his head and she turns to Jasper, "Did you?"

            "Nope." Jasper grins popping the "p."

            She cocks her head at the remaining two, "Miller? Octavia?" They shake their heads no with  grins identical to Jasper's. "Ahh, bummer, Bell." She clicks her tongue, "Better luck next time." She flips her hair dramatically and lets Monty drag her out the door.

            "O!"

            Octavia gives him a sympathetic smile and a "Sorry, B," before skipping out the room after Clarke.

            "O! O! _Octavia_!" He calls after them

            The last thing they all hear is Bellamy's low growl, "CLARKE!"

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, it's not that easy to lose Bellamy Blake (despite how fast you may run down the hall). He easily caught them before they could escape past the front entrance. He growled and huffed until Jasper finally invites him to tag along, _the traitor_. (But Clarke, he's scary! he would complain later). This is how Clarke finds herself sitting across from a grumpy Blake  and trapped between the two idiots she called friends (because honestly if you let them sit next to each other they turn into bickering toddlers) at Grounders.

            "Aww come on, Clarke! Switch with me!" Jasper whines.

            She sighs and shakes her head (thank god for coffee), "No way. Last time I let you two sit next to each other, I ended up with ketchup in my hair. No thank you." She takes a sip from her cup.

            "But Mommmmmmm,"

            "Mom?" Clarke laughs, "Seriously, Jas?"

            He shrugs and slams his back into the cushion of the booth, "I just rolled with it."

            Bellamy smirks , "It fits."

            Clarke raises an eyebrow, "Excuse me did you say something, Bell? My ears are still ringing over your denial this morning."

            His smirk drops and his jaw locks, "I do _not_ cuddle, Clarke."

            "Right, just like how you aren't majoring in history?"

            "Watch it, Clarke." He warns

            She leans in and narrows her eyes, "Or what?"

            His pupils widens and a smirk forms on his lips, "Careful there, Princess." He forward, "Or I don't know _what_ I may do."

            She can feel her face flush, but she doesn't back down, "I'm not afraid of you, Blake. So you're going to have to do a lot more than empty threats."

            His smirk widens, "Who said they were _empty_."

            "Okay! Enough of that, you two!" Octavia chimes in pushing Bellamy back into his seat, "I really don't need to start off this day watching you two engage in this weird mating ritual!"  
            Clarke's blush deepens, "You can hardly call that a _mating ritual_!"

            "Whatever you call it, it's gross." She crosses her arms and settles back into her seat.

            "Agreed." Miller nods.

            Bellamy shoots him a look, "That's enough with you, traitor!"

            "Oh don't be such a hard ass, Blake. You know I've always got your back." Miller shrugs, "So if you really want to continue with your little flirting, by all means" he waves a hand forward.

            "We are _not_ flirting!" Clarke defends.

            Monty pats her arm softly, "It's okay, Clarke. I believe you."

            "Thank you!" she lets out an exasperated sigh and deflates into the booth, "Can we please just switch the topic. Preferably to something that doesn't want to make me vomit more than I already do?"

            "Ouch. Come on, Clarke, we both know I'm a catch." Bellamy winks, but she just rolls her eyes. Like hell she would give him the satisfaction of a response.

            Luckily Jasper cuts in before Bellamy can make another (smartass) remark, "So Octavia!"

            "Yes, Jasper?" Octavia doesn’t raise her eyes from the menu in front of her

            "What are you doing over the break?"

            To this Octavia puts down her menu, a huge grin already spreading across her face, "Cabin."

            "Cabin?" Jasper, Clarke, and Monty all chime in together. They don't notice, but Bellamy has on a similar grin.

            "Yeah, cabin." he smiles

            "Well that explains exactly zip." Jasper pouts

            Clarke turns to Bellamy, "What exactly do you mean by 'cabin'?"

            Bellamy shrugs, "Every year we go up to this cabin our mom left us. It's kind of become a tradition."

            A memory tugs on the edge of her mind. A drunken haze with close finger tips and hushed voices. It feels as if she should remember something. She pulls at the memory but it slips through her mind leaving only an echo behind. _It wasn't your fault_. Before she can stop herself, she reaches for Bellamy's hand (which conveniently had rested on the table)and gives it a soft squeeze. If anyone else noticed they didn't say anything. Besides a soft look of confusion (and sadness?), neither did Bellamy.

            "Anywho, you all should come stay with us after Christmas," Octavia offers, "We could all hang out until New Years, or something."

            "O…" Bellamy groans, obviously not happy with her sudden invite.

            "No, B. It's not like we don't have the room. Besides, " she takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze, "We've never had this many people to celebrate with before. Let's enjoy it."

            "What am I chop liver?" Miller scoffs.

            Octavia turns to Miller and punches him in the shoulder, "Oh shut up you, know you're always welcome!"

            Everyone had turned to watch them bicker, but Clarke's eyes remained on Bellamy. His jaw was locked and his body tense. Like he was preparing to argue. She could almost hear his next words, about how he barely knew a good chunk of these people (not to mention didn't even like one of them) and that he'd rather not spend the only time he has away from these people, stuck in a cabin with them for a week.  Yet the argument never came. Instead his jaw goes slack and his eyes soften as wraps an arm around Octavia, giving her a small squeeze.

            "Okay."

            Octavia whips back around, "Okay?"

            "Yes." He smirks, "You're right. It's been a long time since we've had a full house." He shifts in his seat and faces the rest of them, "You guys are more than welcome to come stay after Christmas." His eyes settle on Clarke's, "Even you, Princess."

            She feels her cheeks burn and she raises the menu, suddenly interested in the daily specials. (That's her story and she's sticking to it!)

            "Speaking of Christmas," Octavia grins, "What _is_ everyone's plans?"

            Clarke freezes behind the menu and her grip tightens on its edges. Of course, Octavia didn't mean any harm by the question, nor could she have know how it would make her feel, (In all honesty it was a fair question) but it was a question that Clarke couldn't answer. In fact it was a question she had been asking herself for the past two weeks. Obviously she couldn't go home, not with her mother there.  Flashes of the phone call run through her head. _Yeah I'll pass on that_. Monty and Jasper had invited her to join them (Even their family is super close, it's adorable) but she couldn't bring herself to intrude on their family time, they rarely saw them as is. Okay, if she is going to be honest with herself, that's not the only reason she turned them down. After everything that's been going on with her mother and Finn and even losing Wells, she's not sure she can handle being around family. (Hell she might not even be able to handle a week with the Blakes) She just wants to be left alone.

            "Earth to Clarke." Bellamy waves a hand in her face, "Look, I know I'm gorgeous, but there really isn't a need to stare like that."

            She rolls her eyes, "Get over yourself, Blake." She lets her eyes drop over him, "I've seen better. " (She hasn't)

            He smirks, "Sure."

            Octavia makes a gagging noise, "What did I say?!"

            "Sorry Octavia, but you're brother is an ass." Clarke shrugs.

            "So you _flirt_ with him?"

            "We're not flirting!" She throws her arms up and Monty bumps her with his shoulder. (There was a reason she always liked him a bit more.)

            "Mhmm." Octavia smirks (She swears that smirk is a requirement for being a Blake) "Whatever you say. So you never answered my question."

            "What question?" Clarke feign ignorance.

            "What are you doing over break?" She rolls her eyes, "Geez it's like you weren't even listening." (She wasn't)

            "Uh… Well…" She is stalling. What was she supposed to say? Oh you know just hanging out in her room because her mom was evil incarnate and she couldn't stand the thought of being around people with all their happiness. Yeah _that_ sounded like the perfect answer. She looks for an escape, but all eyes are on her.  "I'm-"

            "Hello, I'm Maya and I'll be your waitress for the morning. Are you all ready to order or do you need some more time?"

            Clarke's eyes snap to Maya and she swears she could kiss her (And she just might)

            "Oh god yes, I'm starved!" Jasper groans and hastily lists off his order followed by the rest of the table who were all eager to get food in their stomachs.

            Just as Clarke thought she was in the clear, Octavia sets her glass down with a clink, "Anyways, Clarke?

            _Shit_. "Oh yeah…" she bites the inside of her cheek, "I'm-"

            "She's joining us this year!" Monty chimes and Clarke turns around, confused. He just playfully bumps her shoulder with his own before offering her a small smile (his way of showing her that he's got her back) "Finally convinced her to join us for once."

            Clarke bumps his shoulder back (Definitely her favorite) "Don't get your hopes up, I'm leaving the minute Jasper suggests caroling." (He's tried to get her to go before, it never ends well.)

            As if on cue, Jasper decides to try and ruin it all, "Wait a minute, I thought Clarke said she wasn't coming? I thought- Ow!"

            Monty had reached behind Clarke and smacked him in the head before he could say anything more, "You moron, don't you remember her telling us yesterday that she changed her mind?"

            Jasper snorts, "Dude, I don't even remembered what I just ordered."

            Monty shakes his head, clearly regretting his choice of a best friend, "You're a moron."

            "But your moron!" Jasper grins that stupid grin of his that consumes his entire face. Monty bumps Clarke, who in turns bumps Jasper.

            "Hey! Don't get me involved in this" She huffs.

            They both grin and squeeze her in, "You decided to sit in the middle."

            She wedges her arms between them and forces them apart, "Remind me _not_ to do that again."

            The whole table erupts into laugher at the three of them, seemingly forgetting about her stalling earlier. Well everyone, but a pair of brown eyes that continued to look at her quizzically for the rest of the meal.

 

* * *

 

             Clarke didn't know exactly how big her dorm was, until everyone was gone. The once noise filled halls were silent, and all the little signs of its inhabitants cleaned and stored away for the break. At first Clarke thrived in the silence. _Finally_ some peace and quiet! (even Finn didn't bother to show up) She played her music too loud and sang at the top of her lungs to lyrics she knew and even some she didn't. She danced around the hall in a big t-shirt with her shortest of shorts and slid across the wood floors in her socks. Life was great. At least for the first week.

            Soon dancing and music lost its appeal and she slowly found herself hiding away in her room wrapped in a plethora of blankets binge watching _CSI_ (obviously Las Vegas) until it was unhealthy. Sadly one could only binge watch for so long before the food ran out and one was forced from the comfy solace of their bed to venture out in search of food. And that is exactly how Clarke found herself in leggings, (She opted out of her pj bottoms in hope to _look_ like she didn't just get out of bed) a too big hoodie that she's sure she stole from Wells the last time she visited, and her hair pulled into a pathetic excuse for a bun. (Ok so maybe she didn't try _that_ hard.) She toted around a basket on the crook of her left arm and shouldered a low hanging bag on her right.

            "Okay so now where is the candy…" she mused aloud. She had gotten everything she  set out for (chips, coffee, romcoms, and of course popcorn) except for those damn chocolate covered raisins that she's oddly been craving. This explains that while she was too busy stalking down the aisle looking at signs to notice the person who stepped out of an aisle, she ran head first into their chest, effectively knocking her on her ass and sending her basket (and its contents) sprawling across the floor.

            "Shit!" she somehow managed to knock down his basket as well in her downfall, mixing the contents together with her own. "I'm so sorry!" she frantically starts to sort through the mess, "I wasn't looking where I was going!"

            "Clearly."

            Her head snaps up, fully prepared to start a fight (She _did_ apologize after all) when her eyes fall on that damn smirk she just can't seem to escape these days.

            "Bellamy."

            "Always a pleasure, Clarke." He smiles before crouching down next to her and helping her sort the mess, "But I do gotta say, I never expected you to fall all over me like this."

            She rolls her eyes (a thing she's noticing she does a lot around him lately) "God that was bad, even for you Bellamy."

            He laughs before straightening himself up and extending a hand towards her, "Aw come on that was pure genius!"

            "Sure, that's what it was" she scoffs slipping her hand into his and letting him pull her up. It's not until he hands her back her basket that her mind finally catches up with the situation. Technically she wasn't supposed to be here. In fact she was supposed to be long gone about a week ago with Monty and Jasper to road trip it down to South Carolina for Christmas. "Wait, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be gone. "

            He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're trying to get rid of me."

            "Always." she deadpans " Now answer my question. Weren't you and Octavia heading out to some cabin?"

            He unfolds his arms and shrugs, "We are." he shakes his basket, "Had to stop for some snacks before hitting the road."

            She visibly relaxes. It seems Bellamy didn't bother to remember her plans for the break (not sure if she's insulted or extremely thankful. Probably both.) "Why are you taking off so late? Christmas is in two days. Not a far drive I take it?"

            "Not really." he shifts his weight on the back of his heels and leans against the row of fridges to their left, "Just a couple of hours out of the city. As for why we haven't left yet," he shrugs and waves with his hand, "Still had a couple shifts at the bar that needed to be taken care of- Wait" He straightens up and tilts his head slightly, "Why are you here?"

            Her blood runs cold and a shiver runs over her body, giving her goose bumps (despite practically sweating in her damn hoodie) _Shit. Ok Griffin, just play it cool. You totally got this_. She holds up her own basket, "Shopping obviously." She tries to downplay, but she's pretty sure her heart is slamming so hard against her chest that he can hear it.

            "No," he takes a step closer, hovering over her in the process, "I mean what are you doing in _Virginia_? You're supposed to be in South Carolina with the two idiots."

            Of course he remembers, she can never catch a break can she? "Uhh... Well you see…" _Come on think Griffin!_ "Says who?" (Smooth. How is she in premed again?)

            His jaw tightens, "Says you." he growls, "At least that's what you _told_ us a couple of weeks ago, but clearly that's bullshit." he scoffs. "You never planned on going to South Carolina did you?"

            She lowers her eyes, "No." Her voice is so soft she's not sure he heard her, but when she looks up, his eyes are hard on her own and whole body is tense.

            "Are you even planning on going home for Christmas?" His voice is tense and curt.

            "No."

            "Jesus fucking Christ, Clarke!" He exclaims, "Why didn't you say anything!"

            She squares her shoulders and crosses her arms, "Since when did I need to tell you what I do with _my_ vacation!"

            "Since you _lied_ to all of our faces!" he growls

            "I did _not_ lie!"

            "No," he grinds his teeth, "You just had Monty do it for you."

            She can feel the hairs on her neck stand up in rage, "How dare you!" she pokes her finger in his chest, "I did no such thing! Monty was just covering my back, like the fucking friend he is, so assholes like you didn't bug me about what I choose to do with _my_ time off."

            "Oh assholes like me, huh? That's fucking rich, Princess!" He barks back taking another step closer to her.

            "Yeah, assholes like you!" At this point she's practically screaming in his face (or rather up at his face. Again damn his height.) It wasn't until she tears her eyes away that she realizes that they're making a scene among the other shoppers. She pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a step back (Pride be damned), "Why do you even care, Bellamy?"

            The next look he gives her makes her want to slap him, but his words throw her off, "Because you're going to be alone!" He says it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

            Before Clarke can recover (Honestly where did that come from!) Octavia is rounding the corner and yanking on Bellamy's arm, "Come on B! Let's get going!" She turns to see Clarke standing with her mouth slightly open and her arms crossed over her chest, "Oh hey Clarke! Wait-" She pauses allowing her mind to process this (much faster than her older brother) "Aren't you supposed to be in South Carolina?"

            Clarke opens her mouth further to respond, but Bellamy cuts her off, "She's not going."

Octavia raises a brow and looks between the two of them, obviously assessing the situation, "So you've got no plans for Christmas?"

            "No…" Clarke meekly answers. She's not sure she can handle another lecture from the other Blake. The first one was bad enough. But of course, Octavia wasn't her brother.

            "Awesome! Now you can come spend it with us!" Octavia throws an arm around Clarke's shoulders and starts dragging her down the aisle, "This is going to be so much fun!"

            Clarke stops dead in her tracks, "What?"

            Octavia turns around and gives her the same look that Bellamy gave her earlier, one that says Clarke is missing the obvious, "You're by yourself for Christmas right?" Clarke nods her head slowly, "Then you're coming with us. No objections allowed."

            "But-"

            "Nope," Octavia shakes her head, "No objections!"

            Clarke looks helplessly at Bellamy in hope that he will talk some sense into his sister. Like he _really_ want to spend Christmas with her (Ha what a joke!) But when she meets the older Blake's eyes, she is met with a glare that leaves no room for argument. She sighs in defeat and slumps her shoulders. _So much for peace and quiet_. (Not that she was enjoying it much anymore anyways.)

            "Great!" Octavia smiles, "So it's settled!" She slings an arm over Clarke again and resumes walking, "To the cabin!!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, despite it being shorter than previous ones. I promise to try and get the next one out as soon as I can! To make up for the long period of silence, there will be tons of Fluff in the next one! I hope to see you soon and hear from you in the comments C:


	5. It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's almost Christmas and instead of spending her days wrapped in a blanket back at school, Clarke finds herself with none other than Bellamy Blake and his little sister at their cabin in the middle of the woods. She's not sure if they're going to murder her in her sleep, or if their holiday traditions are going to kill her first!
> 
> Or where Octavia is actually a morning person and Clarke gets roped into the Blake's family traditions of last minute preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I begin, I'd like to apologize to **FallenRose2517** because unfortunately I had to split this chapter because of it's length and how long it was taking me, so I was unable to reveal what's been going on with Clarke and her mother D: I PROMISE that it will become clear in the next chapter! Again I am so sorry I let you down and made you wait so long!
> 
> This chapter is mostly Octavia centered, but don't let that discourage you, there are some of scenes with Bellamy and argument Fluff, because I'm a sucker for that. I love you all so much and thank you for being so considerate with my slow updating! You guys deserve the best writing I can give you and I just freak out sometimes, making the process go slower. Still enjoy the chapter, and as always I'll see you at the end!
> 
> Also come say hi to me on Tumblr @ [AwfullyBashful](awfullybashful.tumblr.com)

True to her word, Octavia left no room for objections. Not when Clarke was forcibly shoved into her car, nor when she had to drive back to the dorm, and most definitely not when Octavia threw open her closet and began rifling through her clothes.

            "Seriously, Octavia!" Clarke dodges what she thinks is the third dress Octavia chucked her way, "This is getting a bit excessive!" Octavia pulls free another dress "Oh no!" Clarke throws her hands over the open suitcase behind her, "No more dresses!"

            Octavia spins on her heels, the dress clutched in her hand and waves it in Clarke's face, "What do you mean 'excessive'? I'm only grabbing the absolute essentials."

            Clarke scoffs, "When the hell am I going to wear three dresses in the middle of winter?"

            "Around the cabin, duh!" She turns around and throws the dress at her. Clarke barely manages to catch it before it covers her face.

            "Why would I wear a dress around the cabin?"

            "To impress the pants off of B and the boys obviously!" She pushes aside a few hangers.

            Clarke's mouth drops open and she stares at the younger Blake. "Have you lost your mind?" Clarke manages after a moment, "Why in the hell would I try and _impress_ your _brother?_ "

            Octavia throws a look over her shoulder that spoke volumes about what she thought of that question. (Mostly in the form of are you serious?)  " _Because_ Clarke, it's obvious you two have a thing."

            "What-"

            Octavia turns around fully and puts her hands up in defense, "I don't need to hear about the details, that's my brother for god's sake, but I know flirting when I see it. I like you Clarke, you have my blessing, but" she points a sharp finger at the blonde and slants her eyes, "If you break his heart, I break you."

            "That's great and all Octavia, but Bellamy and I don't have a _thing_." Clarke shudders at the thought. Just the idea that Bellamy and her together was enough to make her gag. (Okay so he was hot, but-  just, no.) She could imagine it now, he'd constantly pick fights with her, teasing her about the way she dressed and probably tugging on her hair (he seemed the type) and don't get her started on the way he'd probably cling to her all the time! With those strong arms and toned stomach pressed against her back….

            Clarke shakes her head trying to derail that train of thought.(She didn't need any ~~more~~  fantasies about Bellamy Blake) "Definitely never going to happen."

            Octavia raises an eyebrow and purses her lips, "Oh please, Clarke. Everyone can practically tell that you two were made for each other. I mean with all the sexual tension and-"

            "What sexual tension! We are at each other's throats every two minutes! Don't get me started about leaving us alone in a room together." (Shit starts flying, ask Miller. He still has nightmares about flying staplers and scissors)

            Octavia shrugs, "Tomayto, tomahto." Clarke scoffs, "Oh come on Clarke! You're telling me you don’t notice the way he looks at you? Like he wants to eat you alive, and not in the way a sister should see her brother look at someone, let me tell you."

            "You're crazy." Clarke laughs, "But let's say you're right, and that's a huge fucking but, there is no way I'm ready for anything even remotely resembling a relationship." Her mind flickers to Finn's broken look. _But I love you more._ "Not after…" Her voice drops off.

            Octavia crosses the room and drops down next to Clarke on the mattress. The shift of her weight makes Clarke lean into Octavia's side and Octavia wraps an arm around her. "So who's ass do I need to kick?" Octavia tilts her head so her eyes meet Clarke's "Because I totally will, you know. If you ask."

            Clarke can't help but chuckle at the thought of the tiny brunette pushing around Finn, "No, it's ok. Your brother already took care of that, Monty and Jasper too probably."

            A devilish grin spreads on Octavia's lips and her eyes beam with what could only be describe as pride, "That's my boy! I knew I raised him right!"

            Clarke laughs even louder at that and Octavia drops her arm from Clarke's shoulders. "You know," she starts, "I know what it's like." When Clarke remains silent, Octavia elaborates, "To be heartbroken like that." Her eyes gloss over with a familiar pain, "The kind of heartbreak that makes you doubt every relationship afterwards."

            Clarke squeezes her hand, but says nothing. She knows Octavia doesn't expect her to.

            "He was a jerk, really." Octavia continues, "Complete coward really. B told him to stay away, or should I say threatened the guy, and he did. Just like that." She laughs bitterly, "Don't get me wrong, I was pissed at B, didn't even talk to him for a whole month, but what really hurt was that the guy didn't even think I was worth it."  Her eyes drop to the floor, "Made me feel like I wasn't worth fighting for, you know?"

            Clarke squeezes her shoulders tightly, "Mine cheated on me." She says after a moment, "Or should I say that he cheated _with_ me." Octavia raises her eyebrows in disbelief, "Yup. We were together for about a year, when his girlfriend transferred in last month." Clarke stares forward, no longer able to look into Octavia's eyes, "Chose her over me."

            Octavia squeezes Clarke's hand, "Oh yeah, I'm definitely kicking his ass." and Clarke can't help but laugh, Octavia joining in soon after.

            "Okay!" Octavia launches herself from the bed and saunters back to the closet, "Forget impressing the boys, let's just make sure you look hot as hell!" She throws a grin over her shoulder, "And if we just so happen to post pictures for him to see then that's just a bonus!" Octavia pulls out another hanger with a dress.

            Clarke laughs, "Oh no! No more dresses!"

            "Oh come on!" She waves the little black number in front of Clarke, "This is perfect screw-you- I'm-totally-hot- and-you're-missing-out  material!"

            Clarke quirks an eyebrow. To be honest, she doesn't even remember buying the dress, let alone wearing it. It was a simple black dress with a sweetheart line covered by a sheer fabric that created a halter that buttoned around her neck. The dress pinches in at the waist and begins to flow downward with a slight sheer under layer that trails slightly longer in the back.  Paired with some black heels, Clarke is sure that she would indeed look "totally hot," and well, what's the harm in a little dressing up every now and then?

            "Fine" she concedes and Octavia jumps for joy, " _But_ you have to put two of the dresses back."

            "Done!" Octavia rushes over to the suitcase and begins to dig around for the other dresses, "You won't need them with this bad boy!" She smiles and Clarke can't help but return one of her own.

            "Okay!" Octavia pulls out two dresses and tosses them over her shoulder, "Now time for shoes!"

            Clarke groans and falls back on the mattress. _This is going to take hours!_

 

* * *

 

            "That took hours!" Bellamy growls when the two girls finally meet him outside by their cars.

            "Blame your sister," Clarke hikes a thumb behind her at the small girl dragging the suitcase behind her (Clarke tried to take it from her multiple times, but Octavia wasn't having any of it) "She practically packed enough to clothe us for an apocalypse."

            "Girls."Bellamy mutters before frowning at Octavia who still hasn't caught up, "Why is she carrying it?"

            "You tell me." Clarke shrugs "Refused to let me do it myself. Something about 'Blake Chivalry' or something like that."

            Bellamy grins and walks to grab the bag from his little sister, "Ah yes, Blake Chivalry." He pats Octavia's head softly, ruffling her hair as he does so, "I raised you well."

            Octavia rolls her eyes and swats away his hand, "Hands off B! I'm not 5 anymore!"

            He laughs, but raises his hands in surrender, "Okay fine." He takes the bag from her hands and easily lifts it off the ground. Clarke can't help but be a little impressed. She knew firsthand how heavy that bag was from when she pulled it off the bed, so that the fact that he can carry one handed says something about fit he was. (Not that Clarke needed any more proof after seeing him shirtless. Twice.)

            "Ready to go?" Bellamy digs for his keys in his pocket and pops the trunk of his car placing the suitcase in, "If we leave now, we could probably make it there by 5."

            "Shotgun!" Octavia screams while scrambling for the passenger door and yanking it open.

            Clarke can't help but laugh, "Well of course you're getting shotgun, I'm driving myself."

            Bellamy shuts the lid of the trunk and turns around, "No you're not."

            "And why exactly is that?" Clarke challenges.

            "Because you don't know the way."

            "Well give me the address, then."

            "Why bother, you can just ride with us."

            "I'm not just going to leave my car!" She crosses her arms.

            Bellamy raises an eyebrow, "And why not? Afraid someone is going to steal your precious Porsche?"

            "First, it's a Lexus. Second, yes I am." she waves her hand around the empty parking lot (save for their cars) "I don't know if you exactly noticed, but there isn't exactly anyone here to watch it!"

            He smirks and points to a camera on top of a light pole, "There are security cameras."

            "Oh yeah," she scoffs, "That way I can watch someone steal my car later on. That's such a great idea, Bellamy."

            "Why are you so keen on taking your car?" He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, "It'll be just a waste of gas, when you could easily ride up with us."

            Clarke rests her hands on her hips, "Why are you so keen on me _not_ taking my car."

            His jaw tenses and he spins on his heels, "Whatever, Princess. Take your car and follow."

            Clarke throws her hands up in anger, "Fine, I will!" She spins on her heels and stomps over to her own car. _What's his deal!_ She grumbles to herself and jams her finger on the engine button. The car roars to life and she slams it in reverse. Before she can even get out of the spot, Bellamy is driving off towards the exit. Clarke glares at his tail lights and throws the car into drive.  She could already tell that Christmas with the Blakes is going to be _so_ much fun.

 

* * *

 

            Clarke pulls up behind Bellamy and shifts her car in park. "Wow."

            What she thought would be a small cabin in the woods turned out to be a colossal structure that stood well into the sky. There was a long stone pathway leading to a set of wide stairs that opened up to a wide porch that covered the entire front of the building. The cabin stood two stories with tall walls made of the classic wooden logs and dark green roof.  Windows adorned either side of the front door and a old wooden swing rested next to the far left of the porch.         Clarke can't help but stare in awe at it all. _It's so beautiful._ She unbuckles her seat belt and slowly gets out. Her mouth must be hanging open because Bellamy takes one look at her face and scoffs.

            "Not what you expect is it?" He smirks, but she can't find it in herself to be mad.

            "Earth to Clarke!" Octavia waves a hand in front of her face.

            "Forget it, O." Bellamy turns back and reaches into his trunk pulling out a bag, "She's long gone."

            "It's beautiful." Clarke's voice barely registers over a whisper.

            Octavia slings an arm around her shoulders and squeezes, "Isn't it?" Clarke turns to look at her, only to find her face turned up towards the house with a small smile tugging on her lips. Rather than ruin the moment, Clarke returns her gaze back to the cabin.

            "Yeah."

            They stand in silence for a second longer before Octavia  slips her hand in Clarke's and pulls her toward the stairs off to the right. "Come on, Clarke! I'll give you the grand tour!"

            "Hey!" Bellamy calls after them, "What about the bags?"

            "Thanks for volunteering!" Octavia drags Clarke up the stairs and to the front door. After digging through her purse for a minute, Octavia unlocks the door and throws it open with a wave of her arm. "Welcome to Cabin Blake."

            Clarke raises her eyebrow and takes a dramatic step inside. If she thought it was big on the outside, it doesn't hold a candle to the space that opens before her. The first thing she notices is the floor to ceiling windows that adorn the far wall of the house. Just beyond the glass was a view that takes her breath away. She drops her keys and rushes to the panes of glass, carefully resisting the urge to press her hands against it like a small child (though she really want to). Before her stretched a lake the lasted for miles. A small dock leads out the water with a small lawn chair rests to the side. _Look at this view!_ Clarke thinks to herself. Beyond the lake was miles of trees that surrounded it's edges and circled around the cabin.

            "Great view, huh?" Octavia whispers beside her. She must have snuck up while Clarke was admiring the view.

            "Amazing." She whispers back, "Your mom left this for you?"

            Clarke turns just in time to see Octavia's eyes glaze over with a far off look, "Yeah." She pauses, "Spent her whole life working for it, and even then it wasn't enough." Octavia laughs bitterly, "Took her damn life insurance to pay off the final portion." Clarke reaches for her hand and squeezes, making Octavia turn to face her.

            "It's beautiful." Clarke smiles and turns back to the view. Octavia squeezes her hand back and returns the smile.

            "Come on," She tugs Clarkes hand away from the window, "Let's get on with the grand tour."

             Clarke laughs, "I don't know. Nothing can top this view."

            Octavia gives her a mischievous grin, "You haven't even see the rest of the place!"

            She drags Clarke into the next room over to see a wide wooden table that could easily seat 8 and next to it, an island counter that separated the dining space with a rustic kitchen complete with black granite counter tops and a stainless steel stove.

            "This is the kitchen, duh, where B will slave away to make our favorite meals." She drags Clarke through an archway in the back and into a small room lined with shelves of food and cans, "This is the pantry where you can satisfy any midnight cravings you might have." Clarke laughs and Octavia drags her out the small room and back through the kitchen.

            "I'm not sure if you noticed anything besides the windows, but this is the living room." She drops Clarkes hands and does a spin, landing on the couch behind her. "Go on take a look around." (Octavia is _such_ a good tour guide, honestly _however_ would Clarke have managed…)

            Clarke rolls her eyes, but obeys the younger girl. She takes her time to sweep her eyes over the fireplace that occupies the wall to the left of the window. On its mantle, is an array of different photo frames and awards. Clarke takes a close step to see old picture of tiny Octavia in a tutu next to a trophy topped with a ballerina. Clarke runs a finger over the engraving. _Award of Excellence to Octavia Cleopatra Blake_.

            "I didn't know you're middle name was Cleopatra." Clarke ponders out loud.

            Octavia groans, "That's what you get when your mom lets your nerd of an older brother name you."

            "Hey!" Bellamy grumbles from the front door, "Cleopatra is a great name."

            Clarke laughs and tunes out the siblings as they begin to bicker over the 'privilege' for being named after one of history's greats. Clarke turns to the arm chair and runs a hand over the back. A thin layer of dust sticks to her fingers, a sign that the cabin has been empty for some time, but she just wipes it on the leg of her pants. She wanders over to the bookcase  and skims the titles on the shelves. A lot of stuff on ancient Rome (obviously belonging to Bellamy) as well as an entire shelf dedicated to mythology (again probably Bellamy's) and a scatter of classics from  Shelley to  Hemmingway. She throws a look over her shoulder to see the two Blakes still arguing (now complete with arm motions) and resumes her exploring. She wanders to the stairs leading to the second floor and peeks up the steps. Along the wall are more pictures of the younger Blake siblings as well as some more recent ones. She climbs a couple of steps to see  a picture of Octavia in her cap and gown with her high school diploma in hand and a bouquet of flowers tucked in the crook of her arm.  A few steps higher is a picture of Bellamy and Miller (apparently the two were closer than she thought) sitting in the back of a truck with Bellamy taking a sip of a beer and Miller with his head thrown back in laughter.

            "Clarke!" Octavia calls from the foot of the stairs.  Clarke turns around in surprise and Octavia can't help but smile, "Ready for the rest of the tour?"

            Clarke's eyes flit back up the steps, "Yeah, sure."

            Octavia climbs the steps with ease, but lingers next to a picture Clarke has yet to see. Clarke  walks up a step to see a picture with a brunette woman, who must have been their mother,  with a young Octavia and Bellamy wrapped under each of her arms. All three of them wore smiles too big for their faces.

            "She's beautiful." Clarke breathes, turning back to Octavia.

            "The most beautiful woman I knew." Octavia says softly.

            "You look like her."

            She turns her head in confusion, but Clarke just nods her head thoughtfully, returning her glance to the picture. "Mhm. Same facial structures and same gorgeous hair." Same look that said she could take on the world and has.

            When Clarke finally turns back around, Octavia is beaming at her and tugs her back up the stairs. "Come on."

            Clarke lets herself get dragged away as Octavia shows her the rest of the second level. There wasn't anything particularly special about the second level, just an assortment of bedrooms (5 including the two bedrooms the Blake siblings claimed as their own) and a couple of bathrooms. (Octavia said there was another on the main level as well as one in the basement.) There is a small living space just by the landing of  the stairs with a couch and a couple of chairs that look over into the main living room and out the windows. Much like everything else in the cabin, it looked well lived in, with knickknacks lining shelves and fade pictures decorating the walls. It was very different from the home Clarke grew up in. Everything was cold and sterile, like a hospital. (Her mom had an eyes for the minimalistic style.)

            "And this is my room! It's a little smaller than B's across the hall, but it's home." Octavia throws open a door at the end of the hall and waits for Clarke to step through the threshold. Her walls were a deep purple striped with a lighter shade and posters (mostly of different bands and celebrities) covering the entire wall above the bed. Clarke runs her hands over the vanity that occupies the left corner of the room.

            "I like it," She smiles turning to face a nervous Octavia, "Really. It screams you."

            Octavia's face breaks into a smile, "Doesn't it?" She flops down onto her bed, "B about had a heart attack when I painted the walls, said something about it being too 'depressing' or some nonsense like it."

            Clarke scoffs, "You'd think he's like depressing from the amount he broods."

            Octavia throws her head back in laughter, "That's exactly what I said!" She jumps up from the bed once more, "Okay, let's get you to the room you'll be staying in."

            Clarke follows her out the door, softly closing it behind her, and back down the hall to the only door on the opposite end. Octavia reaches for the doorknob, but hesitates at the last moment.

            "This used to be our mother's room." She says after a moment, "We don't-  It hasn't been used in a while, so…"

            "Oh, no I couldn't! Really, I'll be fine in one of the other rooms."

            Octavia shakes her head and wraps her hand firmly against the handle, "No, I want you to use it. It has the biggest bed of the three spares and besides," she shrugs, "Someone should use it."

            Clarke nods softly and waits for her to open the door. Clarke walks into the room and is greeted with a mahogany four post bed with a white canopy tied off at each of the columns. Clarke can't help but run her fingers over the wood, tracing the carvings in the posts.

            "Wow."

            "That's not even the best part." Octavia nods her chin to the red curtains to the right of the bed. "Open those."

            Clarke walks over and takes a hand full of the fabric and slowly pulls them apart. As the sun light pours in, Clarke is greeted with the same view as the one down stairs, albeit at a high vantage point.

            "Oh wow, Octavia." She turns to the girl in astonishment, "This is beautiful. Thank you."

            "Thought you'd like it. If your response from earlier was anything to go off of."

            Clarke just nods her head and looks back out the window. The sun was beginning to droop below the trees and set the sky ablaze with hues of orange and pink. Clarke itched to draw it before the moment passed. Octavia clears her throat, snapping her from her thoughts.

            "I'm going to see what's taking my brother so long with your bags. I'll be right back."

            "Okay, thanks." She offers a small smile before the girl disappears out of the room and back down the stairs.

            Clarke take this opportunity to explore the rest of the room, leaving the windows open to let the orange light illuminate the rest of the room. She runs her fingers over the cloth of the canopy to find out that they are made of a sheer material. Wandering over to the end table, she picks up a small frame next to the lamp. A layer of dust covers the glass and leaves a spot from where she plucked it. Carefully, she blows off the first layer, before having to wipe away the rest gently with a finger. A picture of a young Bellamy, no older than 16 or 17, is revealed and he has a smile on his face. He's not looking directly at the camera, but rather just slightly to the left, as if he was looking at someone out of view. His eyes are crinkled slightly and his freckles dance off his cheeks. Clarke drags her finger over the curve of his smile. It was nice to see him like this, unlike the small scowl he wore now days. He seemed happy and care free. _Before he lost his mother_ , Her mind supplied. _Before he blamed himself_ , Another voice echoed, much fainter than the previous one.

            A soft knock at the door causes Clarke to jump, barely catching the frame before it slips from her grip.

            "Sorry," Bellamy apologizes, "I didn't mean to scare you."

            "Oh, don't worry about it!" She quickly sets down the frame, "I was just, uh… Looking around." She walks around the bed and meets him at the door. He just stares at her for a second. "Uh, Octavia said I could stay in here, but if it's a problem, I could-"

            Bellamy cuts her off with a shake of his head, "No, it's ok." He looks around the room, "It's about time someone used it." He sets down a bag she hadn't noticed was in his hands.

            "Thanks. You didn't have to bring it all the way up, I could have got it."

            Bellamy shrugs, "It wasn't that heavy." Clarke just raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Okay it was really heavy. Too heavy. You never would have gotten that thing up the first two steps."

            "Hey! I'll have you know, I'm a master at getting things up stairs!" She argues, "Grew up dragging stuff up and down flights of stairs my entire childhood."

            Bellamy chuckles, "Is that right? I would have paid to see a little Clarke dragging toys up a flight of stairs!" He stops and looks her up and down before smirking, "Well a _smaller_ Clarke that is."

            "Hey!" She lightly punches his arm, "I'm not that short! You're just tall." (It's true. She's 5'5" completely average for a girl her age.)

            "Whatever you say, Clarke." He laughs and this time she joins him.

            After a moment the laughter dies off, and she half expects him to leave, but he just shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet and scratches the back of his neck, as if he is looking for the right words to say. Clarke suddenly remembers their argument in the parking lot earlier and her face flushes. Did they really blow up about _carpooling_. She shakes her head at the thought of arguing over something so trivial now. She was right, but still, it was trivial.

            "Look-" They both start at the same time. Clarke snaps her mouth shuts and gestures for Bellamy to continue.

            "Oh no, you can go first." He waves forward.

            Clarke just sighs, "Look, I just want to say that I'm sorry about before. You know, with the whole carpooling thing? It was trivial and stupid and I shouldn't have gotten so mad, even though I was right, I didn't need to get so worked up."

            Bellamy nods his head understandingly, "Me too." She raises an eyebrow, "For getting so mad, I mean. I overreacted, I know that it's just…" He pauses and presses his mouth in to a thin line, "Forget it. I just overreacted."

            "Just what?" she presses.

            He sighs and  leans against the door frame, "It's nothing, really."

            "If it was nothing, then you wouldn't have cut yourself off." She challenges, but softens up at the last minute, "Come on, Bellamy. I promise I won't get mad."

            He pauses, considering her words before shrugging his shoulders and looking past her and out the window, "You're kind of a flight risk."

            "Excuse me?" She blinks.

            "I don't know, Clarke. You kind of just run off when you're stressed and I- I didn't want you to run off and be by yourself." Clarke stands in silence, unsure of what to say, "Forget it. It was stupid." he turns to leave, but Clarke stops him by grabbing his sleeve.

            "Wait!" He looks at her then down at his sleeve and she quickly lets go, blush deepening. "It's uh- I'm.." She pauses, the words still jumbling around her head. "I'm sorry. For lying to you about my plans and for yelling at you at the grocery store. It's just… You're right, I tend to compartmentalize my problems, it's how I cope, but that doesn't mean…" She sighs, "I'm not going anywhere." She raises her eyes to meet his, "I promise." Silence falls over them.

            "Good." He says at last and finally a smile breaks out across his face, "Besides, I don't think I want to chase after you in this weather anyways."

            "What-" Her mind flashes back to the field nearly a month ago, "Oh you ass! Will you ever let that go?"

            "Have you gotten a new phone yet?"

            She hesitates, "No."

            "Then no," he smirks and she shoves him.

            "Okay enough of that!" She starts to push him out the door, but he just braces himself against the frame.

            "Are you trying to kick me out of my mother's room?"

            Clarke flusters for moment, "Oh! Uh…"

            Bellamy throws back his head in laughter and she notices his eyes crinkled like they did in the picture, "I'm kidding, Clarke. It's fine, really. Besides," he nods his head towards the bed, "That thing is practically made for a Princess." He winks and she rolls her eyes.

            "Good bye, Bellamy." She grabs the door and starts to close it, forcing him to step out of the frame.

            He chuckles and waves a hand as he walks towards the stairs, "Dinner's going to be here in thirty. Hope you like pizza."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, "I love pizza. Who doesn't like pizza?"

            He just laughs and disappears down the steps.

            Clarke spends the rest of her night unpacking some of her things (mostly just her lotion, sketchbook and pens since she didn't want to intrude and use the dresser) and curling up on the floor next to the window and sketching the view from her window. Maybe Christmas with the Blakes won't be as bad as she thought.

 

* * *

 

            A rush of white light floods the room and Clarke is forced to shield her eyes from the blaze.

            "Rise and shine!!" Octavia chirps in the voice of someone who clearly enjoys causing pain to others, "We got shit to do!"

            Clarke groans and pulls the blankets further over her head, "What time is it?"

            "A little after 8:30." Clarke groans louder, but the younger Blake isn't having any of it. Octavia grabs a fist full of Clarke's safe haven and yanks it back, exposing Clarke to a chilly air and an unbearably bright room.

            "This is cruel and unusual punishment." She moans turning her face into her pillow.

            "Come on!" Octavia hops onto the bed and pokes her cheek, "It's time for the box."

            Unable to deny her curiosity, Clarke turns to look at Octavia, who is grinning so wide she's going to split a lip. "What's the box?" Octavia just grins wider (a feat Clarke didn't think was possible) but says nothing more.

            She hops off the bed and saunters over to the door, stopping just before the threshold, "Hurry up and come down stairs!" And with that she is gone and Clarke is curious. Too curious to stay in bed.

            So Clarke, begrudgingly, rolls herself from her queen sized bed and shuffles over to her suitcase sitting on the dresser. She tosses open the flap before digging around and finding a sweatshirt to pull over her head. Whilst rubbing her eyes to rid them of the sting of sleep, Clarke climbs down the stairs and finds a similar looking Bellamy sitting on the couch, nursing a mug of coffee in one hand and the other rubbing an eye. Clarke plops down next to him and leans in to catch a whiff of the coffee.

            "Please tell me you made me a cup." She pleads, looking hungrily at his own. He simply reaches over the arm of the chair and picks up another steaming mug and deposits it into her waiting hands. She hums with approval and takes a small sip of the liquid gold.

            "I don't know where I went wrong with this one." He grumbles into the mug, "I mean a morning person!" He shakes his head with disappointment.

            Clarke nods her head in agreement, "Yeah, you really dropped the ball on that one." She takes another sip and leans further back into the couch, tucking her feet next to her. "So what the hell is this box, and why is it so important that I need to be up before 9?"

            Bellamy opens his mouth to respond when a loud thump causes both of them to jump (very nearly spilling their coffee) and snap to the direction of Octavia standing before them, a foot propped on an old trunk.

            " _This_ is the box." She taps her foot against the lid, "And it is very important!"

            "First of all, that's a trunk" Clarke retorts, "Secondly, what's _in_ it?"

            Octavia cracks a smile before removing her foot and opening the lid slowly. (The girl apparently had a thing for theatrics.) When she finally threw open the lid, an assortment of different decorations began to spill out, as if it was packed too tightly to contain everything. Clarke leans forward and inspects its contents: a tree skirt with Santa and his sleigh of reindeer circling the edges, several cases of glass ornaments of different shapes and sizes, bags and bags of tinsel, and of course to top it all off bundles and bundles of Christmas lights.

            "Christmas decorations." Clarke starts, "You woke me up for Christmas decorations." Clarke immediately stands up, "I'm going back to bed."

            "Oh no you don't." Bellamy grabs her wrist and pulls her back down, "If I'm up, you're up."

            Clarke whines in protest, "But-"

            "No buts, people!" Octavia admonishes, "Christmas is tomorrow and we still have to whip this place into shape! Not to mention we still have to go out and get the tree!" Bellamy and Clarke collectively groan, "Oh come on! It's Christmas! Where is your spirit?"

            "Back in my bed, asleep." Bellamy mumbles and Clarke snickers.

            Octavia crosses her arms in annoyance, "Well if you're going to be like that, B, you get tinsel duty."

            Bellamy winces, "Ah come on. You know I hate that stuff!"

            Octavia holds her ground, "And streamer duty."

            Bellamy groans and mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like _Fucking streamers_. Clarke was almost reveling at the site of Bellamy being pushed around by his little sister, when Octavia turned her gaze onto Clarke.

            "And you," She pauses and taps her finger on her chin, "Hmm, what should you do." She snaps her fingers, "Knickknack duty! Oo and sheet duty!" She adds as an afterthought.

            "Knickknack duty?"

            Bellamy takes a sip of his coffee and nods towards the trunk, "Basically you go around placing the Christmas knickknacks everywhere. Just be careful, some of them are made of glass."

            "And sheet duty means you're in charge of making up the other guest bedrooms for the others."

            "Seems easy enough." Clarke nods her head, absently thinking of places that she could place random knickknacks. "Where do you keep the extra bedding?"

            Octavia, who has already started digging through the trunk, cocks her head, "Sheets are in the cabinet, but the comforters are up in the attic. They are in a box labeled guest bedding."

            "There's an attic?"

            "Mhm. The door on the left of Bellamy's leads to the stairs up."

            "Door left of Bellamy's. Okay got it." Clarke mentally lists off Octavia's instructions.: d _oor to left of Blake's, up the stairs, box labeled guest bedding_. Doesn't seem too hard. Clarke gives a final nod of her head, before bouncing back up the stairs and down the hall.

            After walking past a couple of doors, Clarke realizes that she never actually asked _which_ door was Bellamy's. She stops dead in her tracks and purses her lips in thought. She was sure Octavia had said something about Bellamy's room (at some point). She begins to retrace her steps when she finds herself standing before the closed door of Octavia's room (so kindly adorned by a Keep Out sign you only see on the room of television teenagers). _Bellamy's across the hall_ , she recalls. Pivoting around, she finds herself staring into the lair of one Bellamy Blake. Unlike his sister, Bellamy couldn't have been bothered to shut his door before joining Octavia downstairs (probably due to his sister's freak nature of being so energetic super early). Because of this, Clarke is rewarded with an insight on her former (and occasionally still current) nemesis.

            Not wanting to fully invade his privacy, (she wasn't going to stoop that low) Clarke lingered by the door frame, her eyes sweeping curiously over the room. Unlike his near-barren dorm walls, Bellamy's walls were lined with shelves and shelves of books and an assortment of miscellaneous objects shoved between stacks. She couldn’t quite read the titles from where she stood, but if she had to bet, they are most likely part of the mythology genre, if not historical texts, and possibly a splash of classic literature. Shoved between two particularly large tomes, was a photo frame of what looked like Bellamy and Octavia standing in a forest, much like the one surrounding them now. Skimming over the rest of the shelves, her eyes fall onto the bed occupying the far left corner of the room. The blankets and sheets are crumbled and haphazardly thrown about and the pillow is still indented from where Bellamy's head must have rested. Clarke's cheeks begin to burn. There was something inherently intimate about viewing the place where someone slept. It is like seeing the physical manifestation of a person's personality, weird, but oddly intriguing. Sure, she's seen his dorm room (hell she even shared his bed!), but this was his _home_. This is somewhere he spent years of his life and had meticulously personalized to his desire. If Clarke thought Octavia's room fit her, Bellamy's practically screamed his name.

            Clarke shakes her head. She's here for comforters not to stare at Bellamy's room. She  reaches for his door handle and closes the door. Turning to the door to the left, she twists it open and is greeted with a staircase straight from horror movies alike. Now, Clarke isn't superstitious by any means (she's a firm believer in science), but that doesn't mean she likes to tempt fate when presented with stairs leading to what will most likely be the skeletons of the Blakes' former victims. (She knows it's silly, but come on!) Dark stairs leading to a, probably creepy, attic? Never a good idea. Still, the only other option is go back down stairs and explain that she couldn't get the comforters, because she is scared. She could practically see Bellamy's smirk.

            "No way." she grimaces, "No way in hell I'm giving him the satisfaction." She squares her shoulders and decides to brave the steps. Taking them two at a time, she finds herself standing in an equally, but not at all unexpected, creepy attic filled with boxes and dust. She fumbles around, fingers trailing against the wall to her right, in search of a light switch, because she is _not_ about to walk around in a dark creepy attic.

            She doesn't find one and is forced to walk around a dark creepy attic. _Damn her pride_. She starts her search at a pile of boxes just left of the stairs, but finds nothing but boxes labeled, _Octavia's shit._  She decided to check another cluster, but only finds them unlabeled and taped shut. _Probably their serial killer tools,_ her mind supplies, but she just rolls her eyes. (She's pretty sure Octavia is 90% not a serial killer. Bellamy maybe 75%...) She spots a row of boxes lining the back wall on shelves and decides that those are probably her best bet at finding the elusive comforters. After having to shove aside a few boxes that stand in her way, she crouches down to inspect the ones resting on the floor.

            "Why are you in the dark?" A voice calls from behind her, effectively causing her to jump out of her skin and lose her footing and falling flat on her ass.

            "Jesus Christ!" She curse, rubbing her elbow as the room floods with light and Bellamy standing a few feet away with string in hand (Of course there is a damn light). "Don't sneak up on me!"

            He burst into laughter, "I'm sorry," he pauses for a second and recollects himself, "I didn't mean to scare you. I called your name a couple of times."

            "No you didn't." She definitely would have heard her name.

            He holds his hands up in surrender, smiling sheepishly, "You're right, I didn't. I totally meant to scare you."

            "I knew it!"

            He chuckles, "But I didn't think I'd get you this bad! What were you thinking? That O and I were some sort of serial killers and this whole thing was just come ploy to get you alone in the middle of the woods so we could murder you? Because that's-" The ceiling suddenly becomes very interesting.

            "No fucking way." He stares at her, but she refuses to meet his eyes. His body begins to shake with held in laughter, "You seriously thought we were serial killers?"

            " _No_." Unable to hold it in any longer, he bursts into laughter and her cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I didn't actually _believe_ it." She pauses, "The thought just occurred that _maybe_ -"

            He laughter grows louder and he braces himself on his knees. She's pretty sure she can see tears in his eyes.

            "You actually-" he gasps between laughs.

            She picks herself off the floor and glares at him. _It wasn't that funny!_ "Can you blame me?"

            His laughter cuts off and he straightens himself up, "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "It _means_ that you drag me out to the middle of nowhere, when I barely know you-"

            "We've known each other for-"

            "And then tell me to go up to your creepy attic straight from Insidious or some shit, looking for some box that might not even exist! So excuse me for being a little cautious-" She is cut off by Bellamy's laughter, "It's not that funny!" She scowls, but can't keep the smile fully from her face. "I'm serious, Bellamy!"

            "Oh I'm sure you are." He smirks, wiping a hand at his eye, "Still hilarious though."

            "Shut up." This time they both laugh.(Because okay, it is a _little_ funny.) "So why are you even up here?" She asks after a minute, "Don't you have some tinsel to put up?"

            Bellamy shrugs, "Octavia thought you might need help."

            "And scaring the crap out of me helps how?"

            "That was just a perk," He smirks.

            "Well consider yourself excused then." She turns around to the row of boxes. "I'm sure you  need to get back to your _precious_ streamers and such."

            "Top shelf."

            Clarke cranes her neck to see the box resting on the shelf just out of her reach. "Of course." she groans, "Of course it's on the top shelf." She reaches for the box, extending herself on the tips of her toes, yet alas, it still remains out of her reach. "Who even put it up this high!" Her fingers brush the edge of the box and she manages to tug it gently. _Almost got it._

            A rough pair of hands brushes her own, and a warm chest presses against her back. "Hold up, I'll get it." Each word vibrates through her back, deepening her flushed cheeks.

            She lowers her hands, but find herself caged between him and the shelf. "Uh, Bellamy?"

            "Hold on," He presses closer, forcing her chest to press firmly against her arms, "The thing's stuck." He wiggles the box and it begins to slide free. "There we go." He takes a step back, tugging free the box. The lack of contact sends a shiver (there was a sudden draft!) down her spine. As he lifts the box in the air, she takes the opportunity to move out of his arms.

            "Uh, thanks."

            She watches as he lowers the box between them, not missing the way his arms flex with each movement, and a slow smirk starts forming on his lips. "Always for a damsel in distress."

            Clarke huffs, "I'm a damsel. I'm in stress." She takes the box from him and  shoves him, lightly, aside, "I can handle this." She calls over her shoulder, making her way back down the stairs.

            "Did you just quote _Hercules_ at me?" He calls after, "Do you know how _inaccura-_ "

            "Deal with it, Blake!" She tosses her head back in laughter.

 

* * *

 

            "I swear to god, Bellamy!" She flings a piece of tinsel at him, or rather at the foot of the ladder he was standing on, "Throw anymore tinsel at me and I'm going to knock you off that ladder."

            He chuckles and stick another hook onto the wall, "Isn't that against your oath as a doctor or something? Do no harm or whatever."

            "Not a doctor yet." She grins mischievously, "I can do all the harm I want."

            He flings another piece of tinsel, "I'd like to see you try."

            "God damn it Bellamy!" She slams down the ceramic Santa Claus (which she thinks is the fourth one she's unraveled today) onto the shelf, "I'm going to murder you!"

            "Hey hey! Careful with Santa! Wouldn't want to end up on the naughty list, now would we?"

            "Bite me!"

            "Maybe some other time, I've got tinsel to hang up." She tosses a wad of newspaper at his head, but he ducks just in time. "You need to work on your-" Another ball of paper hits him square in the face.

            "What was that?"

            "Very funny, Clarke."

            Clarke smirks, "I'm hilarious and you're crooked."

            Bellamy stop and  turns back to the garland, "What are you talking about? It's level with the other hook."

            "No it's not. You're too high up."

            "Am not."

            "You are too."

            "Clearly you must need glasses, because they are level with each other."

            "Crooked."

            He scoffs, "Level."

            She crosses her arms, "Why don't you get down here and see for yourself!"

            "I don't need to! They are level!"

            Clarke opens her mouth ready to prove him wrong, when Octavia clears her throat from the kitchen archway.  "I think we need a break," she declares. "Get dressed, B. We're going to the farm!"

            Bellamy groans, "You want to go right now? The decorations aren't done yet."

            "Hey!" Clarke pipes up, "All the decorations _except_ the _tinsel_ is done."

            "It's not my fault _someone_ kept making me move around, so _she_ could place another stupid knickknack!"

            "Well maybe if you didn't insist on trying to put tinsel everywhere I was working, then maybe you wouldn't have had to move around so much!"

            "Well maybe-"

            "Guys!" Octavia huffs, "Seriously! Break time, let's go!"

            Bellamy grumbles and Clarke huffs in annoyance, but neither say anything more. Octavia smiles at her handiwork then turns to inspect the hanging garlands. "Huh, the last hook is too high up."

            "HA!" Clarke sneers. She knew she was right!

            Bellamy slits his eyes in anger at his little sister, "Traitor."

            Octavia throws her head back in laughter, "What? She was right!" She shrugs, "Go get dressed." Clarke chuckles, and Octavia turns her gaze onto her, "Both of you."

            Clarke looks down at her sweatshirt, shorts and bare feet and can feel her cheeks burn. She had forgotten that she is still in her pjs. "Give me five!"

 

* * *

 

            True to her word, Clarke remerges from her room in five minutes dressed in black leggings paired with some ankle boots, a black tank top, and a knit cardigan. It hadn't started to snow yet, so she should be warm enough for a short trip outside. Bellamy was dressed in a similar fashion, with just a dark pair of jeans paired with some sneakers and a t-shirt and flannel combo. Octavia on the other hand, stood apart from them, dressed in a black skirt with stockings and light brown combat boot and a loose fitting burgundy knit shirt topped with a white scarf. Clarke swears she just stepped out of a fashion magazine, which she's pretty sure that outfit was in this month's issue. Regardless, they all pile into Bellamy's car with minimal argument, save a snide remark about asking if she was going to drive herself, and they make their way over to a tree farm in town.

            "No, B, you're wrong!" Octavia scowls tilting the tree in her hand forward, "This is the perfect tree!"

            "No way, O." He counters, "This one is _much_ fuller than that one!"

            "But this one is bigger!"

            "But look at all the space between the braches! A fuller tree will look nicer."

            "But a bigger tree will look better in next to the windows!"

            They both whip around to look at her, their respective trees in hand. It takes her a moment before she realizes that they are waiting for her to say something. "You want me to decide?" She had contently been staying out of their argument, enjoying the way Octavia could rile up her brother.

            "We're never going to agree on this, so you decide." Octavia shrugs, "But just so you know, mine is the better option."

            Bellamy snorts, "Clearly mine is better."

            "Uh…" Clarke looks between the two, "I don't really think I'm the best one to make this decision."

            "Just choose a damn tree, Clarke."

            Clarke glares at him, ready to choose Octavia's just to spite him, when she looks closer at his pick. True it is definitely not as tall as the other, but it still stood at least 3 inches above her head.  She can imagine  the lights strung about its pine needs and the different ornaments  handing off branches, adding some gaps between them, but not quite allowing full view of the trunk.

            "Bellamy's." She shrugs while offering a small smile to Octavia, who makes a noise of protest, "Sorry, I just can picture it better."

            Bellamy throws a triumphant gaze at Octavia, "See! Perfect tree, even Clarke agrees."

            Clarke scrunches her nose, "On second thought.."

            "Sorry, sorry." He raises a hand in apology, "Old habits and all of that."

            Octavia huffs and places her tree back with the rest of them. She loops her arm with Clarke's and flashes Bellamy an almost predatory smile, "Come on, Clarke. Let's go get some hot chocolate while, _B_ finishes up with the tree."

            "Oh don't be a sore loser, O." Bellamy sighs, "She chose fair and square."

            Octavia pointedly ignores the older Blake before tugging Clarke off to the hot chocolate stand near the entrance. They settle on top of a picnic table, after buying their drinks, and fall into a comfortable silence, both enjoying the warm liquid sliding down their throats.

            "Hey," Octavia nudges with her shoulder, "I don't know if I told you this already, but thanks for coming."

            Clarke laughs into cup, "I don't think I really had a choice in the matter."

            Octavia purses her lips and nods thoughtfully, "That's true. Still, thanks."

            "You don't need to thank me, Octavia. I'm really glad I came."

            "Really?"

            "Really." She rest the cup on the table next to her, " Just don't tell your brother that." Octavia laughs. "I'm serious! He'd never let me hear the end of it if he knew he was right."

            "What do you mean 'he was right'?"

            Clarke shrugs, "I don't know, the whole being alone on Christmas thing." She thinks back to her empty dorm and the way it seemed to grow every passing day. "I'm glad I came. I've never had a Christmas like this." She remembers the Christmases of the past, even those with her father and Wells in them, and still, nothing was ever quite like watching the Blakes run around laughing and bickering over decorations. She never had been in a home with memories tucked in every nook and cranny. "It just wouldn't have been the same. Being alone."

            She chances a glance at her friend, to see a pair of hazel eyes searching her face, trying to figure out the best way to say the question Clarke knew was coming.

            "Are things that bad?" She settles, "With your mom, I mean. Are things really this far gone?"

            _I did what I had to, Clarke_. She can see her mother's face at the funeral. The way her jaw is locked and eyes are dry even as they lower her father into the ground. She thinks of the way she refused to talk about him. About how every picture of them was stripped from the walls and shoved into a tight box and stuffed away in a closet. She remembers the countless fights that just seem to build and build, until neither one of them was sure how to repair what they lost. She remembers that stupid phone call that finally pushed them over the edge.

            "Yeah." She answers softly.

            "I don't get it." Octavia confesses and Clarke can't help but laugh at the blunt honesty, "I mean your mother is alive and you can talk to her, so." She shrugs, "I don't get it."

            Clarke visibly tenses. How could she have been so inconsiderate! God, she feels so stupid, but Octavia rests a hand on her shoulder, "I don't get it," she holds Clarke's eyes, "But I also know that I don't know the whole story." Silence falls, and Clarke picks up her cup, only to find her drink to have dulled to lukewarm. She sets it back down and stares off into the distance. She can see Bellamy heaving the tree to the top of the car, with help of another man as they secure it down.

            "You know, B and I have spent almost every Christmas together for as long as I remember."

            Clarke tilts her head, "Almost?"

            "It was the year after my mother died. He was still a kid, you know?" She pauses, "He had a hard time. Losing our mother was hard, but then he had to figure out a way to raise a thirteen year old kid and he struggled. Dropped his college applications, stopped hanging out with his friends to work two dead end jobs, it killed something inside him." Her grip on the cup tightens, "God know I didn't make it any easier, but I was mad. Mad at the world for taking my mother away and mad at B for never being there because he was working. So I acted out, got into fights, started hanging out with the wrong crowds and did some really dumb shit." She stops and find Clarke's eyes, "It got so bad, foster care came in and tried to take me away. It was fucking Christmas too." Her eyes glaze over, "I left him alone on Christmas."

            "Hey," Clarke grabs her arm, "You made a mistake."

            Octavia covers it with her own, "I know. I picked up my shit after that and we made a promise. No more Christmases alone."

            _Because you're going to be alone!_ She remembers the anger in his eyes, but instead of attributing it to their argument, she realizes it was less about her and more about a promise he made so long ago.

            "Okay the tree's ready to go. Are you two just about done?" Clarke looks up to see Bellamy jogging up to them, a soft gleam of sweat on his forehead, curls sticking to the skin in the process.

            Octavia hops off the table and shucks aside the empty cup, "All ready to go!" She beams cheerfully at him and loops and arm with his.

            "Not mad about losing anymore?" He chuckles, "I should give you hot chocolate more often if this is all it takes to get into your good graces."

            "Please, my tree was still better."

            The two share a laugh and Clarke just watches them with soft eyes. _So that what it's like_. They start walking off towards the car, when they stop and turn around.

            "Coming, Clarke?" Bellamy asks with a quirk of his eyebrow and a smirk tugging at his mouth.

            _No more Christmases alone_.

            She tosses her cup into the bin and brushes herself off, "Right behind you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the Bellarke interactions, even though there isn't as much this chapter! I had tons of fun writing them and just messing with their dynamic! Also Christmas in July. How freaking cool is that x) Don't forget to drop by on [tumblr ](awfullybashful.tumblr.com)and talk to me! All screaming and complaining about Bellarke and just The 100 in general is always welcome!!


	6. Baby It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally Christmas! And Clarke finds herself swept up in the ways of the Blakes, from playful bickering to late nights on the couch opening presents. She is having the time of her life, until it all comes crashing down when her past seems to worm its way back into her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I had to cut this chapter from the last one? Well good thing I did, because holy hell is this a long one! The longest one yet, in fact! So enjoy Christmas in July!! And as always, I'll see you at the end?
> 
> Also this is unbeta'd b/c my poor friend is super busy and hasn't had time to finish it, so I'm just going to post for now and then edit it later (don't worry I tried to catch any and all grammatical errors)

By the time Clarke finds a moment alone, it is well into the evening after dinner. She learned early on that Christmas was serious business and the Blakes don't play around. Bellamy, turns out, could be as big as dictator as Octavia when it comes to decorating the tree. He meticulously planned the placement of every ornament so that no two colors or shapes were next to each other in either direction. He argued for white lights over colored, because they are classier, but Clarke challenged that white lights are boring and don't deserve to be on a Christmas tree. (Trust her, she knows.)

Eventually, things got so heated that a few pillows were thrown and Octavia scolded them for knocking stuff over and almost hitting her. Twice. She won't deny that she was embarrassed at being lectured, but couldn't keep the smile from her face every time she glanced over at Bellamy, who wore his own mischievous grin. They were like two kids caught playing where they shouldn't be: sorry at being caught.

            When she finally slips away, Clarke finds herself spending the evening on the second-floor landing, stretched out on the cough overlooking the first floor. She has her sketchbook balanced on one knee, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and a pen in hand. They had long since finished decorating the house, with tinsel adoring every doorway and arch and Christmas knickknacks stuffed on any available surface. 

Even the tree looks amazing (thanks to the  _colored_  lights) as the lights bounced from the glass and scattered across the room. The fireplace was lit and covered the living room with a soft glow. Clarke had been heading to her room to relax when she caught glimpse of the view and just had to draw it. She's so absorbed into the sketch that she doesn't hear someone climb the steps or sneak around the couch.

            "What are you drawing?" Clarke jumps and the sketchbook spirals to the floor.

            "Jesus!" She whips around to find Bellamy grinning like he caught the canary. "Stop doing that!" She reaches for the sketchbook and he takes the moment to swipe her feet off the couch to clear a spot form himself. "Hey!" She digs her toes under his legs, "I was here first!"

            "Tough luck, it's my house." He swats at her feet, but does nothing to remove them.

            "Don't you have a little sister to bother or something?"

            He throws an arm over the back of the cushion, "Alas, she ditched me to talk on the phone about five minutes ago."

            "So now, I get to deal with you?" She shakes her head, "Great."

            "You didn't answer my question."

            "Well maybe if you didn't so rudely push my feet of the couch…" He gives her a look, "Fine, fine." She flips open the sketchbook and rifles through the pages until she finds the unfinished sketch. "It's nothing special," she shrugged, "Just liked the view." She hands over the book and watches as his eyes skate over the rough pencil lines. His eyes flick from the page to over the balcony rail.

            "This is really good." He hands it back, "But then what else do you expect from an art major."

            "Hey" she reprimands with a smile, "An art double major."

            "Oh, how could I forget!" They laugh.

            "So why the double major?"

            "Why history?” She counters.

            "You can never just make things easy, can you?" He chuckles.

            She shrugs, "It's just a reflex with you. Always have to stay on my toes." She teases, wiggling her toes from under him, earning herself another smack.

            "Seriously, though. Why?"

            "How about this," she pulls her feet from under him and tucks them to her side, "I'll trade you question for question."

            "If you just want to get to know me," he leans in until he's dangerously close to her face, "All you had to do is ask."

            "I am?"

            He leans back with a chuckle, "Touché." He waves a hand, "You start, since I asked first."

            "Fair enough." She sighs and bring her knees up so she can rest her chin on them, "It's not some crazy and wild story, if that’s what you're expecting. It's just…" she pauses, "When I was younger, my dad would always sit down and draw with me, for hours at a time. We'd just go out in the front yard under our oak tree and just draw."

A smile tugs at her lips, "You see, we used to play this game, where we'd get this huge pad of paper and set it between us and we had to take turns drawing something to match the other. Like it turns into this monstrosity of a story about how people were in space trying to get to Mars and then they'd have cows on the spaceship because they needed fresh milk and-"

She looks over to see Bellamy looking at her with a smirk on his lips and his eyes full of amusement. Her cheeks quickly burn red, "The point is, that stuck with me. I'd always be drawing to show him something new every day. Eventually, I got good at it and, I don't know, it became something more than just drawing, like it's the only way to really express myself." She shrugs, "So that's why art."

            "And Pre-med? With that mouthful of a major."

            Clarke can't help but laugh, "It sounds pretentious, doesn't it?"

            "Just a bit." He admits with a shrug, before nudging her to go on.

            "I'm pre-med because when I wasn't sitting around drawing, my mother would drag me to the hospital where she worked. She was a cardiovascular surgeon, and well, she was in  _high_  demand. I honestly can't remember a day where she wasn't at the hospital, in fact, if it wasn't for Dad, I'm sure she would have stayed there forever."

 Clarke remembers the many night eating alone at a table for twenty because her mother couldn't make it home. She remembers wondering if she wasn't enough. "So, when I got older, going into medicine just seemed like the next step, especially after my father died."   She couldn't stand to even look at a pencil, let alone, draw for a long time after that.

            "Do you even love it? Or are you just doing it because that's what your mom wanted?" The question is said without venom, but it hits home for her.

            She used to wonder the same thing a few years ago. Did she truly care for being a doctor, or was she just trying to make her mother proud? To make her pay  _attention_. "A bit of both, if I'm going to be honest." She hugs her knees tighter, "It probably started out with trying to please my mother, but you have to love something about medicine if you're pre-med, or else the work would kill you. And I do love it. I love the idea of being able to help people. It's not about the power of having someone's life in my hands, but…" She pauses, struggling to find the words, "It's the power of being able to make a difference."

 She looks up at him, "This must sound really confusing, huh?"

            He shakes he head softly, his eyes still holding hers, "Not at all." Silence falls between them and Clarke can't find the power to look away, not that she's sure she wants to.

            "So why history?" She asks after a moment.

            He shrugs, finally looking away to the balcony, "My mom used to read me these mythology stories before bed." He looks back at her, "Stories like  _The Odyssey_  and  _The Iliad_  and how Atlas carried the world, and they were just so epic, pun intended, and filled with adventure and danger. "

His face brightens, "Like take the Greek myth about how peacocks got their feathers. Zeus was having yet another affair with a young woman, by the name of Io, and Hera got mad, again, so she turned Io into a cow. Hera then gave Io to her servant, Argos, a monster covered in all-seeing eyes. Zeus, feeling bad, tried to help Io by sending in Hermes, the messenger god, to kill Argos. He succeeds, but Hera knew of Zeus' plan beforehand, so she took all his eyes before Hermes arrived and transformed them into the tail of a peacock as thanks for Argos' service."

            Clarke watches as his face lights up with excitement as he recounts the tale, arms waving enthusiastically in the air, reenacting sword fights and speeches alike, and she can't help but feel her own heart swell. She's never seen this side of Bellamy before. The part that's clearly passionate about what he's learning and truly has a knack for storytelling.

            "So, I guess that explains Octavia Cleopatra Blake." She laughs and the tips of his ears turn red.

            "Uh yeah," he coughs into a hand, "My mom kind of told me the story Augustus and his sister Octavia and thus," He scratches the back of his neck, "Octavia."

            She raises an eyebrow, "And Cleopatra?"

            "Cleopatra is a  _great_ name!"

            Clarke quickly clamps a hand over his mouth, "I swear, Bellamy, if you start lecturing me on 'honor of being named after one of history's greats,' I'm going to leave."

            "Still a great name." He grumbles, pushing her hand aside.

            "Okay so riddle me this, why a roman focus if your mother clearly favored the Greek?"

            "It's my turn." Bellamy smirks.

            "Oh, come on, Bell. Just answer the damn question!"

            "So, it's back to Bell, now?"

            She arches a bow in challenge, "Do you prefer the unlikable Blake? Or perhaps bane of my existence?"

            "Ouch." He lays a hand on his chest, "And here I thought we were getting to be friends."

            "We're part time friends."

            "And the what are we the rest of the time?" He laughs.

            "Somewhere between moral enemies and chaotically neutral acquaintances."

            "Oh well now that that's cleared up." They both exploded in laughter.

            "Come on, tell me."

            "Okay, Okay." He shifts so he is closer to her, "The truth is I kind of wanted to piss her off. She didn't like the Romans very much, with the basically ripping off the Greeks and what not-"

            "Oh, so  _rebellious_."

            He pinches her, "Hey!" She raises her hands in surrender, "Anyways, I started reading more and more about them. What really got me was their government and the brutal military system."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, "Of course you're into that kind of stuff."

            "I'll have you know-"

            Clarke smacks her hand over his mouth once more, "Remember what I said! One rant and I'm leaving." He licks the palm of her hand and she yanks it back in disgust, "Gross! What are you five?" She wipes it on his shoulder.

            "Oh, like that's so mature." He snickers and she nudges his shoulder, "So now it's really my turn, and I get to ask a big one since you asked  _two_."

            "Oh god." She steels herself for his question (because let's be honest, Bellamy had no limits here, and he would undoubtedly use it for evil), "Shoot."

            He pauses for a moment and his eyes soften, all traces of humor slowly slipping away. "Why didn't you go home for Christmas?"

            Clarke opens her mouth then closes it. There was a million of ways she could answer him (several of which included storming off and telling him it was none of his damn business, and others, breaking down into angry tears for the shambles that is her life) but something in the way he's looking at her makes her reconsider. There wasn't any pity in his gaze, nor any resentment for her past lie. No, there was just honest to God curiosity, and Clarke finds herself saying the only thing that seems to fit.

            "Because I don't have anyone to go home to." And it's true. Her mother stopped being a mother a long time ago, and her father was gone. There had been Wells in the years after, but now he'd left her too. Monty and Jasper had their own families, and Finn… Finn wasn't hers to go home to. Clarke feels her chest tighten in the weight of her words. She didn't have anyone any more.

            Bellamy must notice her shift in mood, because he lays a hand gently over her knee and squeezes, "You do now."

            She can hear Octavia scolding them about the tree, Bellamy's laughter bouncing around the attic and the two siblings bickering over the most mundane things. And maybe, just maybe, she was wrong. "I suppose I do." Bellamy gives her another squeeze before slipping his hand back into his lap. "

            "Hey Bellamy?" He hums, "Octavia told me about what happened after your mom died. About that Christmas she spent in foster care." His shoulders stiffen and she quickly tries to take back her words. "I'm sorry. I don't- I mean. I should have brought it up."

            "No," he shakes his head and some of the tension leaves his shoulders, "I'm just surprised that's all. Octavia doesn't usually open up to people like that."

            "Oh." She shuts her mouth.  _Oh? Really Clarke that's the best you can come up with?_  She mentally berates herself.

            Luckily, Bellamy takes pity on her and continues, "It was my fault, really. She was just a kid, you know? A kid who just lost her mother and her older brother was too busy to care."

            She can see the pain raging behind his eyes, even after he looks away. "Bell."

            "No, it's okay. I was too busy and I hate myself for it." His hands ball up in fists at his knees, "Too wrapped up in my own god damn pain and misery to know that she was hurting just a much, maybe even more. She was only 12, Clarke. 12 years old and no one to listen to her." He laughs bitterly, "I don't even blame her for acting like she did. All she wanted was somebody to listen. And I couldn't even do that. I'll never be able to forgive myself for that."

            "Hey." She lays a hand softly on his shoulder, careful not to scare him away, "Look at me." He reluctantly turns his eyes to meet hers. "It's not your fault, you hear me? I know you probably think I don't have a right to say this, but I'm going to anyways." She takes a deep breath to collect herself, "You did the best you could-"

He opens his mouth to protest, but she pushes forward, "No you listen to me, Bell. You were 18, for God sake, you were 18 and you just lost your mother! Do you know what most people would have done? They wouldn't have dropped their college applications to take care of their kid sister. They wouldn't have worked themselves to the bone to make sure she was fed and had a roof over her head. Yes, she missed you. Yes, she lashed out for attention, but that's what kid's do when they grieve."

She remembers her own spiral after her dad. If it wasn't for Wells she'd probably would have ended up in jail, or dead. Her eyes search his for some kind of confirmation that she got her point across. She  _needed_  to get her point across, because God if this wasn't the stupidest thing she ever heard. (What is with these siblings and constantly trying to burden everything themselves?!) "You want forgiveness? Fine, I'll give you that, because you know what? You did the best you could, and Octavia knows that. She knows."

            His eyes swim with unshed tears, the pools of brown rippling beneath her gaze. Finally, he tilts his gaze to the ceiling. "Thank you." He whispers and Clarke sags in relief.

            She shifts in her spot and drops her head on his shoulder, staring off over the railing. They don't say anything for a while, but she whispers her own thanks. "Thank you for inviting me."

            "Any time, Clarke. Any time."

            And in that exact moment, as silence fell over them once more, (her head still rested on his shoulder) something shifted in their relationship, even if Clarke didn't realize it. And though she can't say for certainty, she thinks this isn't the first time.

Later that night, long after Bellamy had left for bed, Clarke found herself reaching for her sketch book once more. Instead of continuing her previous sketch, she turns to a new page and lets her pencil fly across the page. At first, she didn't really know what she was drawing, just let her hand guide the pencil absentmindedly.  It wasn't until a familiar mop of curls began to take form that it dawns on her that she's drawing Bellamy.

Instead of stopping herself, (which probably would have been the smart option) she begins to focus on what she was doing, sketching every twist and curl before dragging her pencil over the hard line of his jaw and the soft curves of his lips. It isn't until she's done adding his dust of freckles over his cheeks that she realizes that it’s him from earlier. His eyes pointed at the ceiling, his jaw slack and lips tugged into a slight smile.

 

 

            Clarke should have known she was going to end up falling asleep on the couch. It all started when she flipped over on her stomach to start refining the lines of Bellamy's hair. Then she was leaning her head on a propped-up hand, then letting it drop even further on her bicep. Next thing she knows, bam! Face full of hair and what could only be smears of pencil adorning her cheek and nose. She lifts herself up onto her elbows and a blanket (that definitely wasn't there when she fell asleep) slid off her shoulders and down her back. The chill air makes her shiver, as she pushes herself into a sitting position.

She rubs her eyes and sleepily looks around the room. It's oddly quiet.  _Maybe it's still early._  Clarke looks over the balcony and out the window to see the sun well into the sky.  _Well there went that,_ she muses to herself. Whatever, at least Octavia didn't wake her at the crack of dawn this time. (Which she is actually surprised about. But thankful.  _Really_  thankful.) Lifting her arms in a stretch over her head, Clarke lets out a soft sigh of content.  _This is going to be a good Christmas_.

            Her eyes pop open. Oh yeah, it is Christmas. Clarke couldn't remember the last time she was excited for Christmas, not since she was a small child. Not since before her dad… She shakes her head. No bad thoughts today, no sir! She is determined to make this most out of this holiday, if not for herself, then for Octavia and Bellamy. They certainly didn't deserve a mopey guest. It is that exact moment that Clarke notices the piece of paper resting on the arm of the couch, right about where her head used to lay. She plucks the paper off its perch to see a hastily written note.

_Clarke,_

_I **was**  going to wake you up, BUT B told me not too, since it appears you two had a late night on the couch. I beg of you, please don't let me imagine what went on between the two of you, I am but a young child and do not need to hear those details about my brother._

_Any who, we've gone into town to get ingredients for dinner tonight and probably won't be back until later in the afternoon (Bellamy is so picky about what he puts in food, it's ridiculous!) Feel free to do as you wish, but don't you DARE start poking around under the tree!_

_Love,_

_Octavia_

_Ps. What were you drawing? I couldn't see since you practically covered the whole thing._

_Pps. I left you some coffee, but Bellamy might have drunk it all… It was early when I woke him up._

            Clarke can't help but smile by the end of note. She glances over to the sketch book, which miraculously, was not crumpled up from her having slept on it. The picture of Bellamy stares back up at her. She gently shuts the lid and drums her fingers on the cover. She has at least a few hours to herself, so what should she spend it doing? She hums to herself. She could go into town herself and maybe do a little shopping, but that would mean possibly running into Octavia and Bellamy (not the worst thing in the world, but she's kind of enjoying the brief calmness of the house). She could curl up and read a book next to the window. She purses her lips in thoughts and then spots the black pads of her fingers. She lifts her hand up to inspect the rest of her palm, and sure enough, the side of her hand is also covered in the shiny residue of her pencil.  _Maybe a shower first_.

            And shower she did, after fiddling around with the knobs (what was it about showering at other people's houses that made you forget how to work a shower?) she let the warm water run over her, soaking her hair until it was a soft wave of blonde. She scrubbed away all the grime of sleep, as well as the smudges of pencil that clung to her skin. When she finally emerged from the steam filled bathroom, she felt like a new woman. Her hair was shiny and smooth and her skin glowed. She was in such a good mood, she even pulled on one of the dresses Octavia had packed away. It was a simple light blue sweater dress with the sleeves bunched up to her elbow. Since it was still the middle of Winter (and frankly the cabin is _really_ cold without the fire blazing) She pairs it with black tights. She considered putting on a pair of shoes, but if all she planned to do was laze about the house, there was no need for shoes. When she's satisfied with her appearance, Clarke pads down the stairs in search of coffee that Bellamy better not have finished.

            She almost makes it to the kitchen, when she notices the brightly wrapped boxes stuffed under the Christmas tree. Suddenly Octavia's words made a lot more sense:  _don't you dare start poking around under the tree!_

            "Shit." She runs a hand over her face. She doesn't have a gift for them. Granted, that she never really had the time to shop for a gift (with being abducted and all) nor did she really expect to be  _giving_  any gifts this year (with Jasper and Monty gone, she had extra time to shop if needed)  _but_  she can't exactly  _not_  give a gift to the people who opened their cabin up to her. So again, shit. Clarke starts pacing.  _Think Clarke, think!_  She could go into town and- She shakes her head, she could run into them.  _Maybe I could bake them cookies or something_. She practically scoffs at herself. Burning down someone's house doesn't exactly scream Christmas present. (She can't cook, sue her!) Clarke lets loose a groan. What exactly can she do in the next couple of hours that-

            She smacks herself in the forehead.  _Of course_. Clarke pivots around and climbs the stairs two at a time, stalks over to her bedroom and throws open the door. There laying on the bed is her sketchbook. Quickly snatching it in her hands, she turns to her suitcase and digs around for the case of pastel pencils she managed to tuck in between the copious amounts of clothes. When her fingers brush against the metallic tin, she yanks it free and clothes the suitcase. Tucking, both the pencils and the sketchbook under her arm, Clarke leaves the room once more and returns downstairs. She drags the armchair from its spot next to the couch and plants it by the large windows.

Once she's satisfied with the placement of her spot (that allows for both optimal lighting and maximum gorgeous view), she tucks herself into her throne and cracks open the sketchbook to a blank page. All she has to do now is finish  _two_  compete drawings (not sketches) before the siblings return from their little adventure into town. A sigh escapes her lips.  _At least you're getting lots of drawing in_. She takes a pencil in hand and begins the first one.

***

            "We're home!" Octavia bursts through the door and throws her hands up (hands that were free of any groceries, mind you.)

            "Welcome back," Clarke calls back absentmindedly. She only needed a few more lines and then…

            "Whatcha drawing?" Octavia asks from behind her chair.

            Clarke nearly jumps out of the seat and scrambles to close the book, "Nothing!" She knocks over her case of pencils, sending them sprawling over the floor. "Shit!" She bends down trying to gather those that didn't stray too far.

            Octavia laughs, "Whoa, relax!" She joins Clarke on the floor to help gather up the pencils, "What were you drawing my brother naked or something?"

            Clarke's cheeks burn, "Wha- NO!" Octavia just laughs.

            "Sure, Clarke!"

            "I wasn't!!"

            "Wasn't what?" A voice calls from the door.

            "Drawing Bellamy naked!" Clarke clamps her mouth shut and screws her eyes shut.  _Shit!_

            Turning her head slightly to her lefts, she peeks open an eye to see Bellamy set down the (missing) bags of groceries next to the foot of the couch and cracks a smile. Clarke groans.

            "Don't start with me, Bell."

            His smile widens, "Why Clarke, I didn't know you thought of me like this."

            "Stop."

            "I mean," He strides forward and bends down to pick up a stray pencil. He offers the pencil in hand, "All you have to do it ask." He has the audacity to wink at her.

            "Like that would ever happen!" Her cheeks burn in embarrassment, and most definitely not because she was picturing a bare-chested Bellamy posing pensively on a chair. The sun light would be hitting his face just so- She shakes her head.  _Get a grip, Clarke!_  She swipes the pencil out of his hand and tucks is back into the silver tin.

            Bellamy just laughs and backs up to retrieve the groceries. "Never say never, Clarke."

            "Never, Bell." She retorts. Once she's gathered up the rest of the remaining pencils, she caps the container and tucks it in the chair with the sketchbook. Octavia glances between the two, the ever-growing smile on her lips, and claps her hands together.

            "Okay! Now that that's settled," she hooks her arm with Clarke's, "How are you in a kitchen?"

            "Terrible." She admits, "But I'm a mean stirrer."

            Octavia laughs and tugs her towards the kitchen. "Well it just so happens, I need someone to stir all the batter for tonight's desserts."

            "Hey!" Bellamy calls after them, "Aren't you even going to help with the groceries?"

            "You got them this far didn't you?" Octavia waves a hand over her shoulder, "What's a few more feet to the kitchen?"

            "O!"

            "Lalala can't hear you!" Octavia looks to Clarke, "How do you feel about slutty brownies?"

            "What the hell is a  _slutty_  brownie?"

            It turns out that Clarke is not as an excellent stirrer as she once thought, because Octavia berates her technique more than once (it's literally moving a spoon in a circle! How can she possibly be doing it wrong?!) before she gets banished to the other side of the kitchen where Bellamy is working on prepping the dinner for tonight. Bellamy takes one look at her and points her to a cutting board with a knife resting on it. He shoves an assortment of vegetables and a pineapple at her.

            "Slice those up for me." He smirks, "And try  _not_  to cut yourself while doing it."

            "Better worry that I don't cut  _you_." She mutters under her breath, setting down the ingredients on the counter next to the board.

            "What was that?"

            "Nothing, Bell."

            "That's what I thought."

            "Jerk."

            He sticks out his tongue at her and she bumps her hip with his, or at least she tries, but she probably hits his thigh more than his hip (She needs to get a stool or something! This is getting ridiculous.)

            "Stop your flirting, you two. I'm still in the room, gosh! Have a little respect."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, but Bellamy groans. "Oh, shut up, O. We're not _flirting_."

            Octavia stops her stirring and turns to face him. " _Please_. I'm not an idiot, Bellamy."

            "Could have fooled me…" He mutters.

            "What did you just say?" Her hands got to her hips and Clarke can feel the air thicken. If Bellamy knew what was good for him, he'd shut up now.

            Bellamy sets down the bottle of spice that was in his hands, "I said you could have fooled me."

            And with that Octavia reaches behind her and takes a fist full of flour and flings it at Bellamy. Clarke had to duck to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Sure enough, when she stands up, Bellamy's front is covered in the white powder. Luckily, it didn't quite reach his face.

            "Oh, hold on I missed a spot." She takes another handful and firmly deposits it in his hair, watching with a victorious grin as it trickles down to cover his face. Clarke slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. She must not do a good job, because Bellamy turns around to glare at her.

            "Oh, you think that's funny, do you?"

            She holds her hands up in defense, "No."  _Yes._

"I don't think I quite believe you." He takes a menacing step towards her and she retreats.

            "Bell." She warns. He takes another step forward. "Bellamy."

            "Clarke." She's backed up until she bumps into Octavia (who is looking  _way_  too pleased with herself) and holds her hands out to ward him away.

            "Don't you dare."

            "Don't I dare what?" His lips curve upwards, "Don't I dare do this?" He closes the space between them and starts shaking his hair out in her face. A cloud of flour falls from his curly locks and deposits itself onto to Clarke.

            "Stop it!" She tries to push him away, but he stands firmly planted until he's done, a smirk etched on his lips. Clarke wipes away at the flour sticking to her face. "I hate you."

            "Please. You love me."

            Before Clarke can respond, Octavia bursts into laughter from behind and had to lay a hand on Clarke's shoulder to brace herself. When she finally straightens herself, she has to wipe away a stray tear from her eyes. Clarke glares at the girl before bunching her hand into a fist.

            " _You_." Clarke grabs a hand of flour and flings it at the younger Blake, effectively silencing her laughter. "Not so funny now, is it?"

            Octavia's eyes slant into narrow slits and she turns to grab something off the counter. Quickly realizing what she is reaching for, Clarke scrambles behind Bellamy just in time to hear the crack of an egg shell hit him firmly in the chest. The entire room falls silent.

            Clarke hastily backs up from Bellamy, as his shoulders tense before quickly relaxing. He turns around and smiles at her. A smile that is all teeth and sends shivers down her spine, and not the good kind of shivers either. She takes a shaky step back.

            "Bell?" He reaches behind Octavia and grabs a couple of eggs in his hand.

            She backs up further, preparing to make a run for it. "Come on, Bell. I'm not the one who threw it! Get Octavia."

            "Hey!" Octavia complains, but she really can't find it in her heart to care.

            Bellamy just smiles.

            "I swear to God, Bell." He takes another step and she takes off.

             She quickly dashes to her left and makes for the island counter. Before she can full escape, Bellamy crashes in to the other side and flings an egg in her direction. She ducks and it sails over her head. He has the other one poised and ready. She glares at him.

            "Bellamy!"

            "Clarke."

            He chases her around the island, but she manages to keep it between them. They are at a standstill, both panting from exertion when they reach the far ends of the island for the third time. He's watching her every move and she's watching every tick of his muscles. There is a gleam in his eyes and he is  _actually_  smiling now, not that predatory look he was giving her earlier. Deciding to take a risk, Clarke abandons the counter and dashes towards the exit. Before she can reach the threshold, a firm pair of arms wrap around her waist and tug her back, lifting her off the ground. She definitely does  _not_  squeal at the surprise of being lifted. (No sir. No squealing what so ever.) She squirms against his grasp, but his arm just tightens.

            "No escape now!" He laughs and smashes the egg into her hair.

            She gasps as the cold egg white began to slide down the side of her head and onto her forehead. She furiously wipes it away before whipping around to glare at Bellamy. She shoves him hard in the chest, "This is  _war_."

            Soon the kitchen erupts into a battlefield of flinging eggs and clouds of flour so thick you couldn't see through them. Battle worn and weary, Clarke, Bellamy and Octavia (because they suddenly remembered who started this entire thing and teamed up on her) lay on the floor caked in egg, flour, and what Clarke thinks is chocolate icing (which is weird because we're they even using icing?!). Octavia is the first to peel herself from the floor, a person shaped hole in the layer of flour on the floor, and dusts herself off as best as she can.

            "I'm taking the first shower!" She declares.

            "What?" Clarke shoots up, "Why do you get the first shower? You  _started_  this!"

            "Yeah, but you two teamed up on me." She scoffs, "Not to mention that Bellamy is the one who dumped the whole bag of flour onto the floor."

            Bellamy, who remains flat on the floor, point an accusing finger at Clarke, "In my defense she smacked an egg in my face."

            Clarke whips around, "You smashed on in my hair!"

            "After you used me as a  _shield_!"

            "Regardless! I'm taking the first shower and," Octavia points a finger at the two of them, "You two are cleaning up this mess."

            They both groan. "You helped make this mess."

            "But you two made most of it." And with that Octavia twirls around and walks out of the kitchen, leaving them to figure out how to clean an entire kitchen  _and_  still manage to make dinner. (Because honestly that little impromptu food fight ate up a lot of time. No pun intended.)

            Clarke flops back down on the floor next to Bellamy. "This is your fault."

            Bellamy cocks his head at her, "I think we both can agree that this is  _her_  fault."

            "Okay true, but you smashed an egg in my hair. Do you know how gross that is?"

            "Human. Shield."

            "I was just scrambling for cover!"

            "Sure, Clarke. Sure."

            "Urgh!" She picks herself off the floor once more.  She extends a hand towards Bellamy. "Come on, this kitchen isn't going to clean itself."

            He places his hand in hers and allows her to help lift him off the ground. "We should just make her do it." Clarke gives him a look. "You're right, it'd never get done."

            "Exactly." She turns to grab a dish towel, when he gently grabs her arm.

            "Hold on." He wipes a finger on her cheek, "Got some chocolate on your face." He licks the icing off his finger and Clarke can't help but follow the path of his tongue as it trails up his digit and curls back in his mouth. She can feel her cheeks burn.

            She forces herself to look away, "Where did that even come from?" She laughs nervously.

            He shrugs and opens a drawer to pull out another dish towel, "No idea. O, must have gotten it out for more ammunition."

            "Cheater." She laughs.

            "Yeah, always a scrappy fighter that one." He wipes his face with the towel and reveals the many freckles that adorn his face.  _Like the night sky,_ a voice echoes.

            Embarrassed that she might have been staring, Clarke quickly wipes her own face, ridding herself of the egg residue and the apparent chocolate she had on her face. She bunches the towel in her hand, "So, uh, I'll sweep and you wipe down the counters?"

            "Deal. Broom is in the pantry."

 

 

            By the time they managed to clean the kitchen, (and the one spot in the dining room from Bellamy's lame throw) Octavia just so happens to emerge from upstairs, a towel wrapped firmly around her head, in that fashion that only girls can manage, and a loose pair of sweats rolled up to her shins topped with a muscle shirt.

            "You two still at it?" She opens the fridge and pulls out a water bottle, "Man you guys are slow."

            "Well maybe if we had a little help," Bellamy scoffs, "It would have been done faster."

            Octavia shrugs, "You managed."

            Clarke throws her towel onto the counter, "Well if you're done, I'm going next." She takes a step towards the exit.

            "Hey!" Bellamy blocks her path with an arm, "What makes you think you get to go?"

            She picks up a strand of her hair, "Egg." She tries for another step, but he doesn't budge.

            "I'm going to need a better reason." She glares at him.

            "Fine. How about the fact that you still have to cook dinner?"

            Bellamy concedes and lowers his arm, "Alright, fine. Leave me." He turns away dramatically, throwing an arm over his forehead and everything.

            "Oh please!" She shoves at his arm playfully, "You'd finish a lot fast without me here!"

            "You're right." He nods thoughtfully, "You suck at cutting."

            "Hey! I'm going to be a surgeon! My cutting is  _perfection_. You're just jealous."

            "Remind me to never have you as my surgeon."

            Clarke scoffs, but says nothing more. She has a shower waiting for her. Well, a second one anyways. This shower wasn't as long as the last one, apart from having to scrub her hair twice (just to make sure), Clarke didn't stand around to enjoy the hot spray of water. When she emerged from the bathroom, she walks back to her room to find Octavia sprawled across the bed with a mountain of clothes sitting next to her. She perks up when she hears Clarke enters.

            "I have nothing to wear."

            Clarke eyes her and pulls her towel tighter around her, "It seems you have tons to wear."

            Octavia groans, "But nothing that is  _perfect_."

            "And why exactly does it need to be 'perfect'? It's just us for dinner, right?"

            "Yes, but it's another Blake tradition."

            Clarke closes the door shut and walks over to her suitcase to search for a pair of underwear. "Why am I not surprised." She pulls free a simple black pair with lace lining the edge, "So I take it there is a dress code for tonight?" Octavia just shoots her a look, "Okay, but how fancy we talking? Because I don't have any ball gowns on me."

            Octavia shakes her head and plop her head back down on the pillow, "Anyone of the dresses I packed should suffice. You're wardrobe it pretty fancy already."

            "Hardly." Clarke scoffs. Octavia gives her another look, "Okay maybe a little. Blame my mother. She used to drag me to all these events with her." She shrugs, "Couldn't exactly show up in a pair of leggings and a tank top." She turns to Octavia and hold up her underwear, "Do you mind?"

            "Go ahead." Clarke pulls on the pair under the towel. “Besides the point, I still don't have anything to wear."

            "Well let's take a look at what you have here."

            Octavia groans, "They are all just so, urgh, I don't know, I've worn them all before."

            "Oh, that's an easy fix." Clarke walks over to the pile and picks up the first thing she grabs. "All you need to cover up the fact that you've worn it before it a killer hairdo and the right accessories. Take this simple burgundy dress." Clarke rakes her eyes over it. It really wasn't anything special at first look, just your average bodycon dress with a scoop neckline and thicker straps that went down to perhaps the knees. "If you have some gold jewelry and a pair of nude heels, I can guarantee you that it won't look like something you've worn a thousand times."

            Octavia perks up instantly, "Oh jewelry I've got. The question is what style?"

            Clarke shrugs, "I'd have to see."

            "Well what are we waiting for?" Octavia scrambles off the bed and starts for the door.

            "Can I at least get dressed first?"

            Octavia quickly takes in the fact that she's dressed in only a pair of underwear and a towel. "Oh. Yeah. Maybe we should take care of you first."

            "That would be ideal." Clarke laughs and shakes her head.

            "So, any idea what you were going to wear?" Octavia plops herself down on the bed once more.

            "Well I was dressed  _before_ you decided to start that little skirmish downstairs." She crosses her arms, "But now," she shrugs, "No idea. Maybe another dress."

            "OO! How about that black one?" Octavia smiles deviously, "You need to wear that black one."

            Clarke cocks her head, "You don't think it will be too much? It's just dinner."

            "Blake tradition, Clarke. Dress to impress."

            "Why do I feel like you're making this up?"

            Octavia shoot ups and lays a hand to her chest, "You wound me! I'd never do something like that!" She never manages to wipe the grin off her lips.

            Clarke eyes the younger girl.  _She's so full of shit_. It's all in that smile, but rather than fight her on it, she decides it's best to just play along. "Okay fine, I'll wear the black dress. I think you packed my favorite heels anyways."

            Octavia smirks that signature Blake smirk, "I knew you'd see it my way."

 

 

            "And done!" Clarke lets the last curl drop from the curling iron. "You ready?"

            "Dude I've been ready since the first braid." Octavia laughs, "Just take off that stupid cloth."       

            Clarke rolls her eyes but walks over to the mirror she covered with a cloth (okay so she can be dramatic too. Sue her.) and yanks it off. "Well what do you think?"

            In the end, Clarke and Octavia decided to go with the burgundy dress and paired it with a golden cuff bracelet in shape of a feather, a simple necklace with an arrowhead dangling just below her collar bone and a pair of nude heels, Octavia had laying around. The hair, though, was the main focal point of the outfit. Clarke had taken the sides of her hair and braided them separately before twisting the two braids together a couple of times, forming a type of side ponytail. Clarke then took the remaining hair and curled it into soft waves. Her makeup was simple, nude lips with a subtle smoky eye. By all aspects of the definition, Octavia was drop dead gorgeous.

            Octavia twirls around, "Oh my god." She stops to checks herself from behind, "I don't even recognize this dress." She turns to Clarke, "Are you sure this is the same one you picked out of that pile?"

            Clarke can't help but laugh, "Yes, I'm quite sure."

            "I take back everything I said. You need to teach me your ways."

            Clarke waves her off, "I am but an instrument. You're the one that makes it all work together."

            "We are hot, aren't we?" Octavia slings an arm around Clarke's shoulders and pulls her closer, so they both are in view of the mirror.

            Clarke takes a moment to fully look at herself. The black dress fits better than she originally thought. The cinch at the waist, combined with the outward flow of the skirt, made her waist seem impossibly small and the sweetheart cut and sheer covering did amazing things for her boobs. The heels made her usually short legs seem longer (and the fact that they showed off her tone calves didn't hurt) and finally gave her some much-needed height. (Take that Bell!) She braided her hair into a waterfall and curled the ends so it flowed down her shoulders in soft curls. Her makeup was simple, just some winged eyeliner, mascara, and a matte red lip. To be frank, she looked hot. Super hot. So hot in fact, Bellamy wouldn't know what hit him. Not that she was trying to impress him or anything. Absolutely not. Just on principle really.

            "Come on," Octavia tugs on her arm, giving her a grin that makes Clarke think she can read her mind. "B is probably done with dinner." Clarke allows the younger Blake to pull her out the door while she calls out for her brother. "B?"

            "I'm already downstairs!" His voice calls from up the stairs.

            "Oh great! Close your eyes!"

            "Seriously?" Clarke could practically hear the eye roll.

            "Just do it!"

            He grumbles something too low for them to hear, but calls up a second later, "Fine!"

            Octavia waits a moment, "Are they closed?"

            "Yes! Just come down already!"

            This time Octavia rolls her eyes and pushed Clarke towards the steps. Clarke stumbles forward and shoots the girl a look.

            "You go first." She explains, "I want to make the grand Cinderella entrance."

            "You're ridiculous, you know that right?"

            "I'm fabulous. What are you talking about?" She pushes Clarke forward again. "Get ready B!" She yells down.

            "Yeah, yeah." He mumbles.

            Clarke spares one last glance at Octavia, who only shoos her along, and descends the steps. (Holding onto the rail for dear life, mind you, because let's face it. It's been a while since she's worn heels.) Bellamy is relaxing on the newel with his back to the staircase and a hand stuffed in his pocket. She reaches the final step before Bellamy turns around, eyes still closed.

            "Okay, O. I hope you had your fun while it lasted. I'm starving and would-" His mouth snaps shut.

            Clarke stops mid step and lets her own mouth hang open (only for a second. Or two…) Bellamy is dressed in a deep fitted dark green button up with the sleeves rolled slightly up his forearm to reveal a nice watch adorning his left wrist.  Instead of his usual jeans and sneakers, are black slacks and pair of oxford dress shoes that look like they've been well worn. It was an entirely different side that Clarke hadn't seen before and it was  _doing_ things to her. Things she's not sure that Bellamy Blake should be capable of doing. The boy was hot, but she always prided herself at being able to disconnect from that fact. So why is she finding it so hard to do now?

            "Not O." Clarke laughs nervously, suddenly very aware of his eyes as they travel over her. She expects some smart remark about how very  _regal_  she looks, but is only met with silence. Her body begins to heat under his gaze. She fiddles with a lock of her hair. There is something in his eyes that just made her body shiver with anticipation.  _Wait. Anticipation for **what**?_  "Bellamy?"

            His eyes snap to hers, "Clarke-"

            "You didn't even look!" Octavia complains and both their eyes snap to Octavia who is standing a step behind Clarke.

            "I'm sorry, O." Bellamy apologizes but stops. "Who are you and where did my baby sister go?"

            Octavia cracks a huge smile, "Died and went to heaven." She twirls around, her ponytail swishing around. "And all thanks to this beauty!" She wraps an arm around Clarke.

            Bellamy frowns looking between the two. "You’re not allowed to dress my baby sister anymore."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, feeling some of the earlier tension slip away into ease, "Your little sister is all grown up, Bell. She's  _allowed_  to look like the  _gorgeous_  woman she is."

            "That may be so, but not while I'm around."

            "You're such an older brother."

            "Damn right!" He grumbles, "Look can we just eat? I'm starving."

            "No way!" Octavia cuts in, "We need to commemorate this day with a good ole fashion photoshoot!"

            Both Bellamy and Clarke groan in disapproval, "Come on, O. Seriously?"

            "But, B! This is Clarke's first Christmas with us! We need at least one picture."

            "Something tells me it's going to be more than that…" Bellamy mumbles under his breath.

            "What was that?"

            "Nothing."

            "That's what I thought." Octavia nods, "Okay now don't move. I just have to run up and grab my phone." She dashes up the stairs (apparently, she is defter at walking in heels than Clarke) and returns just as quickly as she left. "Got it! Me and Clarke first!"

            She deposits the phone in Bellamy's hands and drags Clarke off the stairs and towards the Christmas tree. "Remember to get a full-length picture!"

            "Not my first rodeo, O."

            Octavia smiles and throws and arm over Clarke, leaning close, making Clarke wrap an arm tentatively around the slender girl. "Smile!" And Clarke can't help but grin at the girl's enthusiasm.

            Bellamy snaps the picture. "Did you want another?"

            "Yes!" Octavia turns to Clarke, "Let's do a silly one!"

            Clarke obliges the girl and somehow ends up doing at least three more different pictures before Octavia finally is satisfied. "Okay B, now you and me!"

            Bellamy chuckles, trading places with Clarke and poses for a variety of different pictures with his sister.

            "Now you and Clarke!" She announces after checking through the pictures Clarke just took.

            "Oh no. No more, Octavia!" Clarke laughs, "I'm starving." Octavia crosses her arms, but says nothing, opting to communicate exactly what she thought of that through her eyes.

            "Come on, Clarke. We better just do it." he smirks, "Unless you think you're too good to take a picture with little old me."

            "Fine." She throws her hands up in the air and stalks over to Bellamy. "Let's just get this over and eat!"

            "Anything for you, your highness."

            She bristles at the old tease and sticks her tongue out at him. Bellamy, being the mature adult that he is, sticks his own right back at her. There is a faint click of a camera and they both snap their eyes at Octavia, who only offers a sheepish grin.

            "Sorry, my finger slipped."

            Bellamy rolls his eyes, before slinging an arm around Clarke and pulling her in closer. "Alright, let's get this show on the road! I have a ham in the oven calling my name."

            "Agreed." Octavia takes a couple more pictures of them before lowering the phone and locking the screen. "I'll send you both the pictures later. Wait a second," Octavia perks up, "I don't have your number Clarke."

            "Well I don't exactly have a phone, so…" Clarke explains and Bellamy not so successfully tries to hide a snort behind a cough.

            "How do you not have a phone!"

            "Yeah, Clarke. How do you  _not_  have a phone?" Bellamy grins and Clarke glares.

            "You know damn well why."

            "Well I don't!"

            Clarke sighs, "It was just a little mishap with my phone. No big deal."

            "She threw it out the window." Bellamy not so helpfully supplies.

            "You threw your phone out a  _window_?!"

            "Of a moving car.  _My_ moving car."

            "Your car is fine, Bell. Let it go!" Clarke groans.

            "I need this story. Like right now." Octavia demands.

            "Later okay? It's just… not my proudest moment." Bellamy snorts. "Can it, Bell."

            He holds his hands up in surrender and Octavia crosses hers. "Okay fine. You can tell me later. But tomorrow we're going out to get you a new one, because honestly!" She raises an eyebrow, "How have you been surviving without one for so long."

            "It's only been three weeks." Octavia gasps in horror and Clarke smacks a hand against her forehead.

            "Can we just eat now?" Clarke asks hopefully. Between spending her entire morning drawing the Blakes' Christmas gifts and the food fights in the afternoon, Clarke didn't really find the time to eat anything today. Bottom line is, a girl needs to eat.

            "Nope."

            "Why!" Clarke whines. Bellamy shoots her an amused look. "What? I haven't eaten today."

            "Suck it up. I want to open presents. I've waited all day!" Octavia loops an arm through both Bellamy's and Clarke's arm. "Come on."

            Clarke looks back toward the kitchen, "Can't we just get a little snack?"

            "Nope." Octavia drags them back over to the couch before slinking back to the tree to gather up the presents.

            One by one, Octavia laid the brightly wrapped boxes down by Bellamy's feet, who began to sort through them. It was a mindless action, less of a reaction and more of automatic movement trained from the countless years of having to deal with an over excited child on Christmas. Clarke could picture a young Octavia dressed in pajamas dragging her older brother out of bed and making him sit down on this very couch as she shoved present after present in his hand for him to sort between the two.

            "What are you smiling about?" Bellamy asks pushing aside one box.

            "You guys did this a lot, didn't you?"

            "You have no idea." He laughs, "Octavia used to wake me up at the crack of dawn every Christmas morning to open presents."

            Clarke laughs, "No way." She looks back at Octavia who has a grin the size of Texas on her face. "You know what? Never mind. I believe it." Bellamy just laughs and Octavia drags the last box over.

            "That's all of them!" Octavia settles herself down on the floor. "Open this one first, B." She picks up a small rectangle shaped gift and deposits in his lap.

            He picks up the present. "I swear this better not be another book."

            "Shut up you love books, nerd."

            He opens it up and sure enough, it's a book. On the Roman empire, of course. To Clarke, it looked exactly like the ones that she saw on his end table back at ARC. But apparently, that wasn't the case from the look on Bellamy's face as it lit up at the title. He wrapped Octavia into a tight hug then passed her a box. Clarke watched them go back and forth with each gift and suddenly she was overcome with this intense feeling of nostalgia. She was back in her house at 5 years old, sitting on the floor by the tree with Wells.

They were tearing into their presents one by one and holding them up for each other to see. She could see the smile plastered on his face and just knew her face mirrored his. She remembers the fond look their parents would send their way, just sitting off to the side with a cup of coffee and wrapped in a blanket because it was way too early and way too cold to be awake, but they did it anyway because Wells and she couldn't be bothered to wait. She could smell the faint aroma of coffee and hear her father's chuckle whenever they got overly excited about a gift.

            "Clarke?" Bellamy's voice brings her back, "You okay?"

            "Huh?" She feels the familiar slickness on her cheeks and knows she must have been tearing up, "Oh." She wipes them with the back of her hand, "Sorry. Just got lost in my own head." She looks around to see all the presents opened, "Can we eat now?"

            "There is just one more gift." Bellamy reaches behind him and pulls out two wrapped rectangles tied together with a red ribbon.  He places the gift in her lap. "Merry Christmas Clarke."

            "We got it while we were in town today!" Octavia chimes in and Bellamy kicks her. "Ow! It's true!"

            "You really didn't have to." She fiddles with the ribbon, "Really. You guys did enough by just taking me in."

            "Clarke."

            "Hmm?"

            "Open the damn gift."

            "Hold on." She carefully sets the box down before rushing back to the chair by the window. She slides off the tin of pencils from her sketchbook and cradles the book to her chest. "I know it's not much and they might be a little rough, but…"

            Both Blakes share a look then shrug, "Shut up and give me my present." Octavia teases.

            She walks back to the couch and settles down in her spot. She flips open the book and tears the serrated edge of the first page. "Here." She hands the first one to Octavia then tears out the second and hands it to Bellamy.

            Octavia takes one look at her drawing and squeals.  Not the kind of polite squeal people fake to make a person feel better about a gift, no a god honest squeal that honestly left Clarke with a slight ringing in her ear. (And from the Bellamy winced, him too.) "Clarke this is amazing!" She turns the picture around to show Bellamy. "B, look at this!"

            Clarke had drawn a picture of Octavia's face with a bright blue butterfly on her nose, in which the wings cover up most of her lower face, but her eyes are wide with excitement and a smile is slowly spreading it on her lips. Clarke spend a lot of time on the colors of the drawing, blending together every blue she had to make the butterfly seem vibrant and otherworldly and spent way too much time making sure Octavia's eyes matched their real-life counterpart. (She'll admit having to stare at the many different pictures of the girl scattered across the house, may have felt creepy, but worth the effort)

            Octavia jumps up from the floor and wraps Clarke in a quick hug. "Thank you, I love it!" She turns to Bellamy, "What did she draw you B?" She makes a face, "Please tell me she was serious when she said she didn't draw you naked."

            "I didn't!" Clarke's face heats.  _Honestly! Like I would ever-_

            Instead of a quick witty retort, both girls are met with silence. "B?" They both turned slowly to see a stone-faced Bellamy looking at the paper Clarke handed him.

             _He hates it. Oh god he hates it!_  Clarke panics.  _What were you thinking! That was obviously inappropriate, you should have asked him first if it was ok!_

            "Bellamy." Octavia's voice cuts off her thoughts. "What did she draw you?" Octavia walks over behind the couch and looks over his shoulder. Her face drops and settles into that same look on Bellamy's face.

             _Oh god she hates it too._

"Clarke." Bellamy's voice is calm and deliberate. No sign of anger, but no signs of joy either.       

            Clarke quickly throws her hands up in defense, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have drawn that without asking you for permission first. It's just- I never could get the image out of my head and-"

            Bellamy gently lowers her hands so she can look him in the eyes. "You drew this?" He slowly turns the page over.

            It wasn't as colorful as Octavia's. In fact, it was completely devoid of color.  It was the same scene from the student union office a few weeks ago. Bellamy had Octavia lifted in his arm and was twirling her around, her hair swirling around them in a silky wave and her arms braced on his shoulder. She had her head thrown back in laughter, eyes closed, and a huge smile. Bellamy's eyes, on the other hand, were open and filled with so much love and pride that Clarke's not sure she was able to fully capture the look perfectly. His cheeks were dotted with his freckles that sprinkled down his chin and onto his neck and a similar smile as Octavia's. Behind them were Bellamy and Clarke's desks (Bellamy's uncharacteristically covered in stacks of pages and Clarke's completely clean) and the window on the wall letting sun light pour over the two. The moment was full of so much love that Clarke felt that it didn't need any color to convey the feeling between the two siblings. It was just visible.

            "Do you like it?"

            Bellamy sets the drawing down on the cushion beside him and pulls her into his chest. His arms wrap tightly behind her as he squeezes. "It's beautiful." He whispers in her hair and pulls her back slowly, his eyes looking deeply into her own, "Thank you."

            Words are running through her head, trying to find the right response, but all she can see is the look in his eyes as they search her own and everything just melts into confusion and fluster. Finally, she and looks down, shakes her head, "No, no. Really. It was nothing."

            "Now my gift, looks a little lame in comparison." He jokes, but his voice wavers slightly.

            Clarke picks up the present and toys with the ribbon, looking Bellamy and Octavia in the eyes asking permission. With a slight nod from Bellamy, Clarke tugs on the ribbon and separates the two gifts. She starts with the smaller one on top. She flips it over and runs a finger under the edge of the wrapping paper and tears it open. It was a small black moleskin sketchbook. She turns it around in her hands and see the impression of a crown pressed in the center of the cover. She raises her gaze back at Bellamy, who is smiling sheepishly.

            "Couldn't resist, and I saw that your other one was getting a bit full, so…"

            "Thank you." She pressed the sketchbook to her chest. "I love it."

            "You still have one more!" Octavia reminds her.

            Clarke looks down at the remaining box in her lap. This one is remarkably bigger than the first one and thicker too. She rips off the paper, revealing a wooden box. She spares the Blakes a glance before carefully lifting the lid. Inside was a rainbow of watercolor pencils. Clarke tentatively runs her finger tip over them.

            "This is too much. I can't accept this." She carefully closes the lid. "This set must have cost a fortune."

            "You don't have to worry about that," Bellamy says firmly, and with what Clarke this is a hint of anger, but it's gone so quickly she might have been imagining it.

            "Yeah. We know the owner of this shop in town, so we got a great deal." Octavia leans in to take Bellamy's drawing, "Besides consider it an investment if you have this much talent."  She winks, "I'll be waiting for your first art exhibit."

            Clarke's cheeks burn brighter and her eyes divert back down to the wooden box. "Like that's ever going to happen. I'm going to be a surgeon remember?"

            "Phish-posh." Octavia waves a hand, "Who says you can't do both?"

            "The extremely demanding hours of a surgeon?"

            "Touché." She perks up, "Okay! Now it's time to eat!" And with that Octavia stalks off to the kitchen as if it wasn't her that had kept them from eating.

            Bellamy and Clarke share a look, all awkward tension from earlier either nonexistent or at least pretending it is. Bellamy springs up next and offers a hand to Clarke. "Come on, Griffin. Let's eat."

            Clarke slips her hand in his, "Finally!"

            "Couldn't have said it better myself."

            "Hurry up! I'm starving!" Octavia pokes her head out the frame, scowling at the two of them. Their smiles only grew wider.

 

 

            "Clarke, seriously, go sit down. I've got the dishes." Octavia reaches for the sponge, but Clarke smacks her hand.

            "I swear if you reach for that thing one more time, I'm going to spray you." Clarke huffs, rinsing off a plate, "I can clean, even if I can't cook. Besides, it's the least I could do."

            "But-"

            "If you are so insistent on helping then you can dry." Clarke hands her the towel she had thrown over her shoulder. Octavia beams up at her and happily accepts the cloth. They fall into an easy rhythm, with Clarke scraping off the grime of their plates and Octavia drying them and stacking them off to the side.

            "Hey Clarke?" Clarke hums in response. "Did you want to borrow my phone?"

            Clarke sets down the dish in her hand and turns to face her, "Why would I want to borrow your phone?"

            "To call your mom."

            Clarke stiffens and picks up the dish once more, scrubbing it with more vigor. "No."

            "Come on, Clarke."

            "No Octavia."

            "But she's your mom."

            Clarke sets the dish down once more, "I know, Octavia. I know she's my mother, but I'm not going to call her."

            "Why?" Octavia looks down, "I mean at least you can talk to your mom."

            Clarke grips the edge of the sink, "Because, for the first time in a long while, I'm happy. I'm not thinking about all the fucked-up things that have happened and I just-" Clarke takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. "I just want to live like that for a little while longer."

             There is a loud clatter making the two girls jump and turn around to see an angry Bellamy slamming down a stack of dishes.

            "What the hell is she talking about, Clarke?"

            "What? Why are you so angry? We weren't talking about you if that's what you're worried about…"

            "Yeah, we were just talking about Clarke calling her mom." Octavia sets down the towel, "What's the problem?"

            Bellamy storms over to Clarke, easily consuming the space between them with a couple large strides. "What happened to no one to go home to huh, Clarke?"

            "Wha-" Clarke starts, but Bellamy cuts her off.

            "When I asked you why you didn't go home for Christmas, you said you didn't have anyone to go home to. So, tell me, Clarke, how is that possible if you have your mom?" His eyes grow impossibly harder, "Tell me."

            "Bellamy." Octavia lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off and turns to look at her.

            "No, O. She fucking  _lied_  to me.  _Again_." His eyes whip back to Clarke's, "So tell me,  _Princess_." He spits her name like it tastes foul on his tongue and Clarke can't help but flinch at its venom. "Why are you here?"

            "Because you brought me." She answers softly, dropping her eyes from his.

            "Because we brought you, huh?" He scoffs, "What you just decide to see what it's like to slum it with us for the holiday?"

            "Bellamy!" Octavia warns, but he's not listening.

            "You thought you'd play orphan like the rest of us, huh? Pretend mommy didn't exist so we'd pity you, all while you laughed behind our backs. Is that it?"

            "No, Bell. It's not like-"

            "Bullshit, Princess. Why else would you be here? Wait." His face twists into a cruel smirk, "Let me guess, you ran away from home, right?" He laughs bitterly when she doesn't answer. "That's it, isn't it? You fucking ran away from mommy and her money and her fancy house and cars. What did she not buy you those expensive shoes you wanted?"

            " _Bellamy_!" Octavia growls.

            Clarke's eyes snap back to his and meet his glare with an icy one of her own. "You better watch your mouth, Blake. You don't  _know_  me."

            "Oh, but I do. You're just another stuck up rich elitist, who thinks they are better than everyone. You get bored with your perfect life with the fancy clothes and the fancy parties, so you decided to 'rebel' against your parents and go off to study art and hang out with the rest of us." He takes a step closer, "Tell me,  _Clarke_. You put up this act like you’re the victim in all of this, and quite the act let me tell you. You had me fooled from the start, I actually  _believed_  you. So, what did she do that's so bad, huh? Tell me what-"

            Clarke's boiling point tips over and she shoves hard into his chest, forcing him to stumble back in his surprise. "You want to know what she did wrong?" Shove. Tears are stinging the edges of her eyes. "You want to know what was so bad that I had to move 4 states away?" Shove. Her voice starts to crack. "You want to know why?" Shove.

            "Yeah, Clarke. I fucking do." He growls.

            "She  _killed_  my dad then had the fucking audacity to lie about it for years.  _Years_! Then she cut me off when I wasn't going to play her little game anymore. SO, you can take your  _assumptions_  about who  _I am_ and why  _I'm here,_  and shove them so far up your ass, you choke on them." She shoves him once last time and he stumble back into the island. The air cracks with tension, but no one breaks the silence. Clarke is staring angrily at Bellamy, Bellamy can't meet her eyes, and Octavia looks helplessly between the two.

            "Clarke-" Octavia tries, but Clarke stops her by raising a hand.

            She wipes a stray tear angrily from her cheek. "Fuck you, Bellamy Blake." And with that, she storms from the kitchen and flies up the stairs. She thinks she hears a faint "Clarke!" but she ignores it and slams the door shut behind her.  The room is dark besides the pouring moonlight from the open curtains, but she doesn't bother to flip the switch.

            She yanks off her heels and hurtles them to the floor. He wants her gone? Fine. She rips open her suitcase and starts throwing in the clothes she had scattered around the room. She wrenches her makeup kit from the dresser and shoves it deep within the fold of her clothes. She gathers up the rest of her belongings and slams closed the suitcase and zips it up. She snatches her purse from the floor by the bed and pulls it open to search for her car keys. She violently shoves things around, trying to locate the damn thing, when her vision begins to blur from the tears.

She doesn't need this right now. She's seeing flashes of her dad. Each one a picture of his spirit breaking day by day in that prison cell. Each one a reminder of how no matter what she did, she could only just sit and watch as he lost the light in his eyes, replacing it an ever-growing sense of dread and despair. The tears are coming harder with each shaky breath and her knees wobble under her weight. Finally, the sobs start clawing their way up her throat and tearing past her lips. She cracks and falls to the floor, burying her face into the purse, as if to muffle the sounds of her breaking apart. She sees the shaky smile her father offers her the last time she saw him alive.

            " _What's wrong dad?" She asked, his smile was scaring her._

_"Nothing sweetheart." He reassures her, hugging her tighter against his chest, "Just a little tired that's all."_

_"I love you." Her chest tightens and she can feel the familiar pull of her heart. "You know, that, right? I love you."_

_"I love you too, Sweetheart." He squeezes tighter. "I love you so much."_

_"You're scaring me, dad." She pulls away to look him in the eye, but all she saw was his far-off gaze._

_"I'm sorry, sweetheart." He gives her another squeeze. "I'll see you next weekend alright? I love you."_

_"Love you too, dad."_

"Clarke?" There is a tentative knock at the door. "Clarke, it's me. Look, please open this door. I know I don't deserve it, but please…"

            Clarke clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. She crawls over to the door and double checks the lock. "Go away, Bellamy." She rests her forehead against the wooden panel, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the world. "Just  _go away_."

            "Clarke,  _please_." There is a creak in the wood and she could practically feel his heat seep through the barrier. "I know I fucked up, and you have every right to hate me-  _I_  hate me- but please don't shut me out. I'm begging you Clarke, don't shut me out…"

            A whimper escapes through her fingers and she catches it by pressing her other hand against the first. She can feel her fingers dig into her cheeks, but she doesn’t care.  _I love you too, sweetheart. I love you. I love you._  His voice is a broken record sending its jagged pieces plunging into her chest.

            " _Please_. Let me make it  _right_." His voice cracks with desperation and the sound rips her eyes open. "Just let me make this right."

            His word crash against those of her father.  _I love you. Let me make it right. I love you._ She sees her father's face paired with Bellamy's arms wrapped tightly around her.  _I love you. It's not your fault._

            The words ring clear through her mind, cutting through every thought.  _It's not your fault_. She remembers the hushed words between them as she talked about her dad and how he opened up about his mom. She remembers the tingle in her fingertip as she traced constellations in his freckles. She remembers Bellamy's hand tightly gripping her own and his eyes steady on her own.   _It's not your fault._  And Clarke wants that. She wants to feel his hand in hers and hear his soft reassurances. She  _needs_  that.

            "Clarke?"

            She reaches for the doorknob and pulls herself up. She unlocks the door and slowly pulls it open. Bellamy is standing there in the doorway, hair askew as if his fingers hand run through it over and over again. His shoulders sag in defeat and his eyes are swimming with concern as they take her in. He says nothing, just stands there in dreaded silence.

            "What?" Clarke wipes are her eyes to clear away the remaining tears.  

            Her words seem to spur him into action, as he closes the space between them and pulls her hard into his chest. "I'm so sorry." His arms squeeze tighter and Clarke can feel a fresh wave of tears build up in her eyes.

            "I hate you." She whispers. His arms tighten until she's flush against him. "I hate you." She sobs, "You're such a fucking asshole." She hits his chest with her fist, but he remains where he is. "Asshole."

            "I know." He mumbles against her temple and his voice is so sweet and pleading that it breaks the dam. Tears spill down her cheeks uncontrollably and her body shakes with the uncontrolled breaths.

            "I hate you."

            They stood there as the hours ticked by. Her I hate you’s giving way to shallow gasps for air and the pounding thuds of her fists dulling to weak taps against him. Bellamy didn't say a single word, just held her against him, even when her knees grew too weak to hold her up anymore and they were forced to sink to the floor. It wasn't long after that Clarke's tears finally died up and her throat ached from swallowing small pockets of air. She laid silent against his chest just listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart.

            "She killed him. My mother. She killed him and then pretended he never existed." Clarke finally whispers.

            Bellamy tense beneath her, "You don't have to, you know. You don't owe me anything."

            She pulls away and his arms slowly slip away from her side, "I want to." And she does. For all the hateful things he said to her, she wants him to know.  She picks herself off the floor and moves to sit on the bed. Bellamy watches her carefully before picking himself up and settling down next to her.

            "My mother and dad worked for the same hospital. My mother was a heart surgeon and my dad an engineer that was often called in to help design the next big thing in medicine. Well my dad got contracted to work on this new x ray machine that was supposed to minimize the amount of radiation exposure, but as he started working on it, he began to realize that the machine wasn't safe. Instead of minimizing the radiation, it doubled it. He brought his finding to the medical board and advise that they quickly pull the machine from production, but they had already done so much publicity on it and had spent millions on orders that they refused to pull the project. "

She pauses for a moment. "My dad was the kind of guy who couldn't sit by and let people get hurt when he could have done something, so he did the only thing he could think of. He was going to leak the findings to the press and force the company to pull it. When my mother found out, she was furious. She would have lost her job, her reputation, everything. So, they argued and argued until my dad promised that he wouldn't leak the information.

“He lied. One day, I come home from school and walk in on him recording a video explaining everything. He made me promise not to tell anyone, especially not my mother. And I didn't. I never told a soul about that video, but somehow someone found out the day before my dad was going to go public. We were having dinner one night when the police knocked on our door with an arrest warrant for him, saying that he was charged with stealing company secrets and selling them to the highest bidder. Dangerous company secrets." Clarke feels her voice get caught in the back of her throat and she has to pause to regain control. Bellamy silently lays his hand over hers and squeezes lightly.

            "The trial was a joke." She whispers, "He was already guilty before he took the stand." His hand squeezes tighter. "So, he went to prison and I cried and cried until I thought I didn't had a single tear left. Then I spent every weekend driving up to visit him, alone. I guess that should have been my first clue."

She laughs weakly, "She never once came to see him, and I could see in his eyes that it killed him. I  _begged_  her to come with me, to just see him once, but she wouldn't. She would say she was too busy or just straight out refuse to acknowledge him. So, I went alone and watched him break." She takes a shaky breath, "Then I'd come home and she'd be gone and it was like I lost them both.  Then I really lost him."

_I love you, sweetheart._

            She could feel a tear slide down her cheek, but she brushes it away. "I went one weekend to visit and everything just seemed off. He was closed off and there was this look in his eye. It scared me, and I asked him what was wrong, but he lied, saying everything was alright, and I believed him. I believed him because I was afraid to find out what that look meant. So, I pretended and the next day I get a call informing me that my dad was dead. That he killed himself with a bed sheet in his cell. She didn't even bat an eye. Not when I rushed to her work crying. Not when we lowered his body into the ground.  _Nothing._   And I hated her for it.

“God did I hate her. Then, it was like he never existed. She took down all his pictures and even refused to say his name, no matter how much we argued about it. Then, she started taking longer shifts at the hospital and eventually we just didn't see each other." She raises her eyes to meet his. "My dad used to call us a pair of comets, so similar, but constantly bumping into each other. I guess without him we just bumped each other too far apart."

            "What happened next?" His voice is low, so low she almost doesn't hear it. She returns her gaze back towards the wall.

            "She got promoted to Chief of surgery and earned a spot on the Board a couple of years later. The same board that had my dad charged for trying to tell the truth. I came home one day, ready to scream at her, ask how she could do it when they killed dad. I walk towards her door, only to hear her on the phone with someone. I don't know why I stopped and listen but I did, and then I heard her explaining how she proved her loyalty to the board by turning my father in. That she was the one to tell them about him going public and how she was the one to plant the secrets into his file."

She remembers the feeling of her heart dropping to her toes and the sharp stab in her chest. "My mother framed her own husband and then had the audacity to pretend he didn't exist. I never hated anyone as much as I hated her in that moment. So, I ran back to my room, packed a bag and ran."

            "Where did you go?"

            "To Wells. I always ran to Wells." Her eyes find Bellamy's. "But now he's gone too."

            His eyes soften and he pulls her into another embrace, "I'm sorry."

            She pulls away and falls back against the bed, her eyes carefully trained on the canopy of the bed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. Bellamy watches her, before lowering himself down next to her. They don't say anything, just stare at the cloth and watch the moonlight dance off it in patterns.

            Clarke's hand finds his, "Why are you here Bellamy?" She turns her head, "Why did you come up here?"

            "Why did you open the door?" His turns to face her and his freckles dance in the light.

            "I asked you first." She breathes.

            "Because as much as I deserve it," His eyes lock with hers, "I don't want you to hate me."

            "I don't hate you." Clarke admits after a moment.

            "You should."

            "I know, but I don't."

            "Why did you open the door, Clarke?"

            She remembers his soft voice and the whisper of his words.  _It's not your fault_. "Because you said it wasn't my fault and I needed you to make me believe that. " _I needed you to anchor me down to reality, like you did before._

            He chuckles softly and the bed shakes with the rumble of his chest. "And here I was thinking that you'd forgotten that night." He turns back to the ceiling. "You were pretty drunk."

            "I know I kicked you ass in shots."

            "That you did." Silence falls over them once more and she takes a moment to study his profile. She takes in the curve of his nose and the soft slope of his lips and the dip of his chin. She decides to chance another question.

            "Hey, Bellamy?"

            "Hmm?"

            "Why'd you stop calling me, princess?"

            He rolls over and quirks an eyebrow, "Did you want me to start again?"

            "Not really." She answers, "But you never did care what I thought about it."

            His eyes soften, "I'm sorry."

            She shakes her head, "I'm over it." She pauses, "You know Finn used to call me that." He flinches. She can't help but laugh at little. "But seriously, why did you stop?"

            "To be honest, I should have stopped that day in the field. You screamed at me and everything. I shouldn't have-" He shakes his head.

            "So, why did you?"

            "Defense mechanism? I don't know." He sighs, "I guess it was the only way I really knew how to handle you, you know? Get you riled up. Angry Clarke I can handle, but normal Clarke? You've got me stumped half the time."

            "You seem pretty confident from my point of view."

            "That is because I have an excellent poker face." Clarke laughs.

            "That you do. But what changed?"

            "You told me about your dad." He answers softly. Her eyes lock with his, "And I told you about my mom and suddenly it turns out that we're two of a kind." He chuckles, "Stubborn and self-destructive."

            "I can agree with that." She whispers. She interlocks their fingers.

            "Me too." His hand tightens the grip.

            Her eyes drift towards the ceiling only to notice a new pattern of shadows dancing on the cloth. She props herself on her elbows and twist to look out the window. Small dots of white are floating down from the clouds.

            "Hey Bell, look." She tugs on their adjoined hands.

            "What?" He twists so he can look out the window.

            "It's snowing." She awes.  _The first snowfall of the year._ "Isn't it beautiful"

            "Yeah, it is." Clarke didn't know, but he wasn't looking at the snow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it satisfying? I hope it was worth the wait finding out what happened between Clarke and her mom (I'm not a big fan of Abbey for many reasons, so if this story is to have a villain, it is her) I also hope there was enough Bellarke moments for you, I had a lot of fun writing their scenes, especially the kitchen scene :D Also if you're curious what Clarke and Octavia's outfits were inspired by/completely based off of I made a post on my tumblr [here](http://awfullybashful.tumblr.com/post/125463437181/so-in-my-bellarke-fic-the-cracks-in-our-armor-i) (Clarke's dress looks blue, but I'm going with black b/c I can)
> 
> Comment what you think, or even stop by at my tumblr [AwfullyBashful](awfullybashful.tumblr.com) My ask is always open!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your feedback and the Kudos! They give me life and bring a smile to my face :)


	7. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke finally gets a new phone and notices something odd about her pictures with Bellamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look another chapter not a month later! Look at me getting better. So this chapter mostly sets up stuff for the next few so don't be sad that there's not a lot of Bellarke, but I assure you there is more to come!   
> Thank you all for the comments and Kudos, they make me smile all day when I get a notification.

Clarke wakes up to an empty bed. No warm hand in hers, no familiar mop of curs tickling the side of her face, no soft rumble of laughter. What is there, is an overwhelming heat that drags her from unconsciousness. _What time is it?_ She cracks open her eye and looks at the window only to see that the curtain had been closed. She lays there and listens to the movements of the house, trying to shake off the last remnants of the dream. It's quiet, but not as quiet as the day before. She can hear the faint shuffles of people moving around downstairs and what Clarke can only guess to be the soft hums of conversation. She lays there for another second, before she decides it's time to get up. She throws the blankets off with a flourish and meets a chilly, but welcomed air, that immediately cools her down. She's still in the black dress from last night and her hair is a tangle of braid and curls, more resembling a bird's nest than actual human hair. She wipes an eye with the back of her hand only for it to come way smeared in black.

            "Great." She mumbles. She must have forgotten to take off her make-up before getting into bed.  After a quick stretch, she rises from the bed and makes her way over to the bathroom across the hall. What she sees in the mirror isn't actually as bad as she thought it would be. Sure, her hair is a knotted mess and her eyes look like those of a raccoon's, but her cheeks are clear of any mascara lines (that should be there from the  amount she cried last night) and her red lips are only slightly smudged on the edges. Maybe she had enough sense to wipe off her cheeks, but why would she leave the rest of the make-up on? (She chalks it up to exhaustion and moves on.) She scrubs away the rest of her make-up and revels in the clean feeling of her face. _Much better._  After drying her face with a towel, Clarke walks back to the room to change out of the, while admittedly cute, but ultimately uncomfortable, dress and into a clean pair of black leggings (a girl can never have too many leggings), and a loose fitting burgundy long sleeve. She pulls on a pair of fuzzy white socks and tucks them away into a pair of light brown combat boots. She untangles her hair the best she can with a brush, before giving up and ultimately pulling it back into a messy bun to deal with later. Sparing a quick glance in the mirror to assure that everything looks right, she bounds down the stairs to join the Blakes in the kitchen.

            The closer Clarke got to the kitchen, the nosier it got. Besides the clanking of pans and other cooking materials, the Blake were apparently engaged in one of their arguments, the ones only siblings can seem to argue over nothing (well besides Clarke and Bellamy, but that's beside the point). Instead of walking in and interrupting the two, Clarke settles herself in a chair at the island and enjoys the show. Bellamy is busy flipping pancakes, while miraculously managing to push aside a few strips of bacon in the pan to his left, and Octavia is occupying the counter space next to him trying to engage him in conversation as a ploy to swipe a slice of finished bacon.

            Bellamy swats her hand, "Hands off, O. You will get some _after_ I'm done."

            "But B!" She whines, "I'm hungry now!" This time she reaches for a pancake, only to be foiled again.

            "I mean it. This is Clarke's plate." He  tries to shield the food with his body, "Go wait somewhere else. I'll get to yours in a bit."

            "Why does she get the first plate anyways? I'm your sister, you're supposed to feed _me_ first!"

            "Yeah well you didn't spend have Christmas night ruined now did you? She at least deserves breakfast in bed after that."

            Octavia rolls her eyes, "It's not like it was _my_ fault. That was all you big bro."

            Bellamy stills for a second and nearly misses the pancake in the process, "I know…"

            "Hey," she rests a hand on his shoulder, "You didn't know. Doesn't excuse the fact, but-" she shrugs, " everyone makes mistakes."

            His shoulders relax, "Thanks, O."

            "What are sister's for if not to cheer their moody brother's up."

            "I'm not moody." He grumbles.

            "Keep telling yourself that, B."

            He slides her a piece of bacon from the finished pile, "Here take this and go away, so I can finish this in peace!"

            "Yum!" She snatches the piece and takes a huge bite out of it, "Thanks, B!" She hops off the counter and that's when she notices Clarke. "Hey Clarke!"

            Bellamy stiffens once again, but quickly tries to cover it up by probing the pancake with a spatula to check the underside. Clarke can feel a surge of panic settle in her chest. Was he going to pretend that last night didn't happen? Should _she_? How exactly _was_ she supposed to act after spending the vast majority of the night in his arms bawling her eyes out, only to hand held onto his hand for god know how long… _Shit_.

            She opens her mouth, ready to say something, _anything_ , to defuse the awkwardness, but Octavia beats her to the punch. "So, Clarke, ready to go shopping?"

            "Excuse me?" Clarke sputters.

            "I told you last night that we were going to the phone store first thing in the morning." Octavia rolls her eyes, "Don't tell me you forgot. It's your _phone_ for God's sake."

            "You were serious about that?" Clarke recalls the conversation from the night before, "I didn't think you actually meant today. The store will be crazy with shoppers."

            "Of course I'm serious! How else am I supposed to text you things about Bellamy behind his back if you don't have a phone?"

            "Hey!" Bellamy turns around indignantly, "Rude."

            "It's true." Octavia shrugs.

            "Well you can forget it." He shuffles around the pans and flicks the flame off of medium and onto low. "You're not going anywhere." He dumps the fluffy disks onto a plate and sets a few pieces of bacon next to it. Grabbing the plate in one hand, and the butter and syrup in the other, he walks over to the island and plops the dish in front of Clarke and settles the toppings beside it, "At least until Clarke can eat something."

            Clarke's eyes jump to his, bracing herself for his gaze. Instead of the wary one she was expecting, his eyes are soft and tender, almost as if _he's_ the one afraid of how she'll react. "Hope you like blueberry." His lips tugs into a slight smile and she immediately recognizes the gestures as an olive branch (Not that he needed one, she'd already forgiven for him last night).

            She smiles in earnest, "I _love_ blueberry." His grin grows to match her own, but before he can say anything, Octavia interrupts with a whine.

            "What?! You made blueberry pancakes and didn't let me have one first!" She crosses her arms in a pout, "You're the worst big brother ever!"  

            Bellamy snorts and turns back to the stove, "Shut up I'm amazing." He turns the flame back on medium and pours in more batter, "Besides yours is next."

            After a few more minutes, everyone had settled down at the island and ate their pancakes in between friendly banter. Before long, Octavia pushes aside her plate and turns to Clarke, who was nibbling on her last slice of bacon (because Bellamy really knows how to cook the stuff so it's the perfect amount of crunch and chewy). Bellamy was still cutting into his last pancake.

            "Okay, you've eaten, now onto the mall!" She declares. "Bellamy, you get the dishes."

            Bellamy swallows a bite, "Why do I get the dishes? I cooked the food!"

            "I did dishes last night," she wraps an arm around Clarke, "and Clarke here is a guest. So you get dishes." She smiles a wicked grin, and Clarke knows he won't argue. He _does_ grumble something under his breath, but other than that there isn't any further protest.

            "Perfect!" Octavia chirps and stacks her dish on top of Clarke's and slides it in his direction. "Do you mind driving?" She turns to Clarke, "I can give you the directions."

            Clarke shrugs, " I don't mind, just let me run upstairs and grab a scarf and my keys."

            "Awesome. Meet you by the car!" And with that, Octavia is heading out the kitchen and towards the front door. Clarke hangs back and watches the perky girl with a small grin. _Such a morning person_. Clarke turns around to give Bellamy an apologetic shrug, but stop when she sees the serious look in his eyes.

            "Clarke, about last night…" He pauses.

            Clarke sighs, "It's okay, Bell. You don't need to-"

            "No I do." He cuts her off gently, "I overstepped last night, in a big way. I shouldn't have-" He sighs, "I shouldn't have said those things, I'm sorry."

            "Bellamy." He won't meet her eyes, "Bellamy look at me." He reluctantly complies, "I forgave you last night when I opened that door. You know that right?"

            He shakes his head softly, but a small smile cracks on his lips, "I do. I don't know how you could, but you did."

            She smiles, "What can I say? I'm amazing."

            He scoffs, "Don't let it go to your head." They laugh.

            "I can hang back and help you with dishes, if you want. It seems unfair to leave you with them, since you _did_ cook."

            Bellamy waves her off and finished his last bite of pancake, "You go off and have fun. Besides," he smirks, "It'll give me some peace and quiet from that tornado I call a sister."

            Clarke opens her mouth, ready to tell him that Octavia isn't _that_ bad, when the young girl's voice floats in the kitchen, "Clarrrrkkkeee! Hurry up!"

            Clarke rolls her eyes and exchanges a glance with Bellamy, "Any tips on how to survive?"

            Bellamy raises his mug, "Coffee. Lots of coffee."

 

* * *

 

            Unfortunately Clarke didn't have enough time to grab a travel mug, before Octavia came stomping back into the kitchen and dragging Clarke out the door, without her scarf (which really sucked because it is seriously cold out). Despite the mall crawling with post-Christmas return shoppers, Clarke's carrier store was surprisingly empty, besides a couple other. They were browsing through the Samsung section (because Clarke had an iphone the last time and just never again. The SPACE! Urgh.), when Octavia finally asks the question Clarke can tell she's been dying to ask.

            "So what exactly _happened_ to your last phone?"

            Clarke winces, "I threw it out a window. Your brother's  moving car window to be exact, not that he'd let me forget it."

            "What possesses a person to throw their cell phone out a moving car?"

            "In my defense, I was having a really tough day. Okay more like a really tough _couple_ of days, but still."

            Octavia raises an eye brow, "Go on."

            "I had walked in on my long term boyfriend with his _girlfriend_ of almost _four_ years. Instead of dealing with the problem, I ran off on a trip with Bellamy for the student union, but he just kept calling and calling and eventually I couldn't take it. So, I rolled down the window and tossed it."

            Octavia just stares at her for a moment, before shaking her head with a small laugh, "You know I'd think you were insane, if I could say for sure that I wouldn't do the same thing. I mean I'd probably have killed the guy before I left, but hey," she shrugs her shoulders, "To each their own."

            Clarke can't help but laugh, "I wasn't thinking straight! I just wanted it to stop."

            "And turning your phone off wasn't an option because?"

            This time, Clarke is the one to shrug, "Not nearly as fun?" They both laugh. Their conversation gets, cut off as a sales representative appears and asks if they need any help. After spending a few more moments to browse over the variety of smart phones, Clarke decides on the Samsung Galaxy S5 in white and spends the next half hour going over the basic routine of setting up the phone and transferring over her account information (a process that is a lot longer  when your previous phone is in a million pieces on the road, mind you) and contacts saved to her Google account (thank god for technology). Soon Octavia and Clarke were packed back into her car and driving off, Octavia messing with Clarke's phone like a new toy.

            "You do know that's _my_ phone right?" Clarke spares a glance from the road, "I will be wanting it back."

            "Yeah, yeah." Octavia waves her off, "I'm just uploading my information and making sure I have a kick ass contact picture." She poses for a selfie and Clarke hears the shutter of the camera. "There. Perfect!" She turns the screen for Clarke to see. Clarke rolls her eyes, but looks over none-the-less. It's a picture of Octavia blowing a kiss at the camera while winking.

            "Absolutely, perfect. I wouldn't _know_ what I would have done without that picture." Clarke slides her eyes back to the road.

            "Don't get snippy with me, Clarke." Octavia huffs, "Or I might just let your phone slip out the window."

            Clarke snorts, "You wouldn't dare." Octavia gives her a pointed stare, "Okay, so maybe you might. Please don't."

            Octavia laughs, "That's what I thought!" She rests the phone in the cup holder in the center console, trading it for her own. She taps away at her screen, before a soft buzz fills the car. "There you go. I just sent the pictures from last night over. Don't worry, I just sent the ones that made you look hot. Which was all of them."

            "Even the ones without me in them?" Clarke jokes.

            "Especially those!" Octavia winks and they laugh. Clarke pulls up to a stop light, when Octavia turns around in her seat. "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer me, but I have to ask."

            Clarke spares a glance at the light, still red. She's not stupid, she knew Octavia was going to ask her eventually. She sighs and turns to face the girl in honest. "Do I need to pull over so we can talk about it, or can I give you the short version?"

            "The short version is fine. It's just-" She pauses to find the right words, "Did she really kill your father?"

            "Directly, no." The light turns green and Clarke pushes forward, grateful for the distraction. She didn't want a repeat of last night. "But she might as well have." She pauses and takes a deep breath, "My dad was trying to stop something that would hurt a lot of people and my mother, who was working for the people responsible, turned him in and essentially help them set him up to go to jail." Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, "Jail broke him and she didn't even care. It got so bad, he just gave up one day." They hit another red light and she returns her glance to the younger girl, the familiar tightening of her chest choking back the sadness, "I found out and left."

            Octavia lays a hands on her shoulder and squeezes, "If I would have known- No." She shakes her head, "I shouldn't have pushed you to call your mother, I had no right. And Bellamy!" Her hand slides off and forms a ball in her lap, her eye focusing on how her nails dig into the meat of her palm. "Bellamy and his big mouth!" She squeezes tighter, but relaxes it after a second. When her eyes meet Clarke's again they are soft with a hint of pain. "He's bitter. Growing up with next to nothing will do that to you, but he shouldn't have…"

            Clarke slips and hand onto hers, "I know. I get it, really. I grew up with more than most people ever had, or really need to be frank. I know how it looks." She shrugs, "He didn't know, no one did. He just…" She thinks back to the anger on his face and the betrayal in his eyes, "Saw whatever one saw, a spoiled princess."

            "Hey. You're not." Octavia's face splits into a grin, "But you do have the wardrobe of one."

            Clarke laughs, "Please, feel free to take a few of those dresses. I don't wear like half of them anyways." The light switches to green and Clarke presses on the gas.

            "Careful, you just might lose your entire closest!" Octavia says with a wink.

 

* * *

 

            Octavia unlocks the door and bumps it open with a hip. "We're home!"  She dumps the keys into a dish on the side table and waits for a response that doesn't come. "Hmm, must be in his room or something."

            Clarke shrugs and closes the door behind them. "Probably in the shower or you know back asleep."

            Octavia's eyes sparkle, "Ooo that sounds like an amazing idea." She takes a few steps towards the stairs, "I'm going to go listen to music and take a nap."

            Clarke snorts, "Yes, because going out to watch me shop for a phone is _so_ exhausting."

            "I'll have you know, I am very exhausted!" She waves over her shoulder, "Wake me up, when Bellamy starts making something to eat." And with that she disappears up the steps and down the hall, leaving Clarke to her own devices for the rest of the afternoon. (She can actually tell the time now that she's got a phone.)

            Rather than spend another day lounging around the living room, Clarke decides that maybe her room will a better change. She climbs the stairs and spares a glance down the hallway leading to Octavia's room. Sure enough, she could hear the music pour from the closed door (this time it sounded more like hip-hop than the pop she heard last time.) Her eyes slide to the door opposite of Octavia's to find it closed as well. She shakes her head. _Like brother like sister_. She twists the handle of her door and quickly slips inside. Her bed is still unmade and her clothes are still haphazardly stuffed into her suitcase to the point of exploding. Clarke grimaces. She should probably fix that if she didn't want the her remaining clothes to wrinkle. Her eyes slide back to the bed. Or she could lay in bed. She flops down onto the fluffy mattress, her feet dangling off the edge because she's too lazy to actually unlace her boots and kick them off. The blankets puff around her and she can feel the warmth seep through her shirt. Oh yeah this totally beats fixing her suitcase. She raises her phone and stares at its glossy black screen. There is something about new phones that just makes a person happy. She presses the power button with her thumb and the screen sparks to life with a colorful geometric design. She flicks her thumb over the screen and the phone transitions to her home screen. A little number next to her message icon draws her eye to the bottom of the screen. Knowing that it must be the pictures Octavia sent over, Clarke quickly taps on the envelope and navigates to her only text thread. There was a total of 8 messages.

**Hey Clarke! As promised here are the photos. Don't worry I made sure to send the one of you and Bellamy flirting ;p**

**Downloading attachments…**

            The pictures finish downloading and Clarke types out a quick reply before browsing over them.

**Thanks, Octavia! Or should I call you O, since that's what you named your contact?**

A response comes quicker than she expects.

**Ha ha. It was a reflex, only B calls me that. Feel free to change it.**

**Maybe I will, maybe I won't.**

**You're such a loser. I'm going to bed.**

**Have a nice nap!**

            Octavia sends a flurry of emoticons and Clarke takes that as a signal that the conversation is finished. She taps on the first image of her and Octavia smiling brightly at the camera. Octavia pulled the focus of the picture by far, with her eyes shining bright and smile wide. She was glowing and the tight red dress did nothing but help accentuate her strong and lean body. If she wasn't completely sure that Octavia was straight, Clarke would definitely be all up on that. She chuckles at the thought and clicks on another picture. This one they were making silly faces at the camera, but still couldn’t quite keep the grins from their faces. She skips over a couple and clicks the one with her and Bellamy. It was the candid shot Octavia snapped of them arguing. They looks like grown children with their tongues sticking out at the other. She can feel her own smile stretch across her lips as she saves the picture to her phone. She taps another of them both flipping the camera off and laughs. (She saves that one too.) The next picture is by far the most serious of the duo. Bellamy is looking at the camera, his lips tilted upwards in a slight smirk, and his arms crossed over his chest, his shirt hugging close to his defined muscles. Clarke, on the other hand, wasn't looking at the camera at all. Her smile took up most of her face and the blue of her eyes seem to sparkle in the glow of the tree. She was looking up at his face, her chin tilted so she could get a full view of his face, and a soft look in her eyes. She stares at the image for a long time. There is something about _that_ look that's so… _familiar_. Before she can trace the thought any longer, her phone starts buzzing in her hands. The screen flickers to the incoming call and Clarke nearly drops the phone when she sees the name. Finn.

            She bolts up and stares at the screen. Why is Finn calling her? She made it clear the last time she spoke that she didn't want to see (or hear) him again. Her thumb hovers over the reject call, but she wavers. As much as he hurt her, she couldn't deny the way her heart ached for him. Her thumb swipes over the accept button instead. With a shaky hand, she raises the receiver to her ear.

            "Clarke?" His voice embeds deep in her chest. "Clarke are you there?"

            She takes a breath, "What do you want Finn?"

            "Thank God!" He lets loose a huge breath, "I've been trying to get a hold of you for weeks and when your mom called-"

            "Wait." Clarke grits her teeth, "You talked to my _mother_?"

            "She called me worried, saying that you weren't answering her calls and she didn't know where you were. I checked your dorm and-" She could practically see him shaking his head, his hair probably swaying softly in the movement. She hates that she can. "Where are you Clarke? I've been looking for you everywhere."

            "No. You don't get to ask me that, Finn." Her grip tightens dangerously, "You don't have the _right_ to ask me _anything_. What are you even doing looking for me? You have a _girlfriend_. Shouldn't you be off spending the holiday with her?"

            "Clarke-"

            "No, Finn. I don't even know why I picked up your call in the first place!" She spits, "So you can stop pretending you care, okay?" Her words are sounding harsh even to her own ears, but her anger spurs her forward, "And if my mother calls again, tell her I'm going to continue _not_ answering her calls and relay her the same message."

            "Clarke-"

            "Good bye Finn." She yanks the phone from her ear and ends the call. She flops back down on the bed and presses the heel of her palms in her eyes, letting loose a load groan. Answering the phone has been a bad idea. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't push down the hurt that stabbed in her core. She presses harder against her eyes, trying to will away the memories of him. The memories that were now tainted by his betrayal. Of his smile. The way his lips would whisper her name as they lay tangled in the sheets. The way her breath would catch in her throat when he laughed. The way his eyes would soften when he caught her eye from across the room. Her eyes snap open and she jerks up. She grabs her phone and taps the home button to bring it to life. Quickly navigating to her messages again, she pulls up the last picture of her and Bellamy. She knew there was a reason that look seemed so familiar. It was the same one Finn used to give _her_.

            She quickly shakes her head, trying to clear away the thought. _That's ludicrous. No way am I looking at Bellamy like **that**._ She feels something twist in her stomach and she absently lays a hand to still it. _Could I?_ She shakes her head once more. No, it was just Finn messing with her mind. _Besides_ , even _if_ there was the tiniest hint of her having a crush on Bellamy Blake (which there isn't!) it would be moronic. No way he'd ever feel the same way. Her stomach twists again, this time in a lot less pleasant way. She sighs. Answering the phone really was a bad idea.

            She lays there for a few more moments, letting her thoughts terrorize her, before she springs up determined to busy her hands (and by association, her brain) in the only way she knew: drawing. She looks around for her sketchbook, but doesn't see it laying around. She walks around the room, checking under the bed and even digging through her suitcase but still it is nowhere to be found. She wonders back downstairs, thinking she may have left it there, and sure enough, there it was sitting on the couch cushions, beneath it the set of watercolor pencils the Blakes got her for Christmas. _Well might as well break them in,_ she thinks to herself. She gathers the materials in hand and spares a look out the window. The sun was high in the sky and the light bounced off the water in a delightful way.  Looking back down at her supplies, she grins, deciding that drawing outside would be just the distraction she needed. She rushes upstairs to grab her phone, if only to have a way to keep track of time, or maybe capture a moment to draw at a later date. Just as she is about to exit her room once more, she remembers the weather. It is far too cold to go out there as she is, and Octavia didn't manage to pack away a coat with all her other clothes. She taps a fingers on her chin in thought. Maybe she'd be able to get away with just a blanket, but she doesn't want to just drag out one of their blankets and get it dirty… Maybe if she asks Octavia, she'll have an old one. With that decided, she heads out of the room and makes her way over to the younger Blake's room.

            The closer she got to Octavia's door, the louder the music got. (Which is funny, because wasn't she supposed to be taking a nap?) She's now absolutely sure that the girl _is_ listening to Hip-hop, and from what she can tell, not the kind of stuff you hear on the radio. Octavia's full of surprises.  Clarke raises a hand to knock when a voice calls behind her, "Don't bother, she won't hear you."

            Clarke jumps in surprise and whips around to see Bellamy's door open, giving full view of him sprawled across his bed with a book in hand a pair of glasses perched on his nose. "Jesus, Bell!" She clutches a hand to her chest, "Stop doing that!"

            He smirks, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." The smirk says otherwise.

            "Yeah, uh-huh, sure." He chuckles softly. Clarke takes a couple steps forward until she's standing in the doorway. "I didn't know you wore glasses."

            "That's because I only need to wear them when I read." He scoffs holding up the book in hand. One quick glance tells her it's the one he got from Octavia.

            "I've seen you read lot of times in the Student Union." She raises an eyebrow, "No glasses then."

            She can see the tips of his ears burn pink, "Well uh…"

            "Bellamy Blake." She can't help the smile, "Are you telling me you are a closet glasses wearer?"

            "Closet- What?" His cheeks flush next, "No."

            "Mhm. Sure." Clarke smirks and he just groans, setting the book in  his lap.

            "What did you want Clarke?"

            Clarke leans against the frame, jostling her materials, "I'm thinking about going to draw down by the dock, but I don't have a coat. I was hoping Octavia would have an old blanket or something that I could use instead."

            "Hold on." He tucks in a slip of paper and closes the book, emerging from the bed to dig around in the closet next to the foot of his bed. He pulls out a rust colored blanket. "This should keep you warm." He walks over and hands it to her.

            "Thanks." She tosses it over her shoulder and she could already feel the weight of the material. It would _definitely_ keep her warm. She rocks on her heels when the silence stretches on. "Uh, well I'll let you get back to your book." She turns to make her exit when Bellamy calls after her.

            "Wait." She turns around and he scratches the back of his neck, "Uh, mind if I tag along? I kind of exhausted all the reading positions my bed had to offer." He jokes. "I wouldn't be a bother, just silent company…" She cocks an eyebrow. "Don't give me that look. It's totally a thing!" He defends.

            "Are you bored, Bell?" She laughs.

            "Incredibly."

            She smiles at his honestly, "Then grab your book, or don't." She shrugs, "Just don't expect me to be very talkative."

            He smirks, "Wouldn't count on it, Clarke."

 

* * *

 

            Bellamy keeps his word and remains a silent company, the only evidence of his presence is the shuffle of an occasional page being turned or the subtle shifting of his coat when he changes his position in his seat (a folding chair he had routed around in the attic for. Clarke denied when he offered her one). At first, Clarke thought the silence would be awkward, given the events of last night still at the back of their minds, but oddly enough it was comfortable, relaxing even. She easily lost herself in her art, so much so, she didn't notice when Bellamy set aside his book in favor or peeking over her shoulder to watch her hand fly across the page. It's the soft rumble of his voice that brought her out of the trance.

            "Are those the pencils we gave you?" Clarke jumps at the start and nearly drops her pencil into the lake. He quickly reaches out to steady her, "Sorry. I really have to work on _not_ scaring you" He smirks.

            Clarke waves him off, "It's my fault. I kind of forgot you were there." She shrugs, "Lost in my own head. But yeah, they are the ones you gave me. I figured what would be a better way to break them in, than by drawing my favorite view." She nods her head to the lake, the sun still high in the sky, but slowly sinking lower.

            Bellamy shifts closer, sliding off his chair and settling down next to her on the dock. "I thought they were supposed to be watercolor." He drags a finger over one of the lines, "Or am I missing something?"

            "They are!" She smiles and reaches for the small brush tucked away among the pencils, "They can be used in a variety of ways." She holds the brush between them at eye level, "You can either use a brush, my preferred method, wet the pencils themselves, or use a special damp paper." Her grin grows wider when she spots his brow knit in concentration. "Want to see?"

            He nods his head slightly, and she lowers the brush, bending to look over the edge of the dock. The water was too low for her to reach on her own, but perhaps if she stretched a little further. The tip of the brush reaches the lake and soaks up the liquid. As she tries to raise herself, her palm (the one supporting her of course) slips and she blindly flails to regain her balance. Bellamy's arm shot out and grabbed her waist, pulling her back onto the deck before she could fall into the water.

            "Watch it there, Clarke. It's much too cold to go for a dip." He smirks.

            "Ha ha." Clarke deadpans, but grins despite herself, "Thanks for the catch, though."

            "Any time." She expects him to pull always, but instead he carefully unwraps his arm and uses it to support himself on the dock next to her thigh, his chest resting against her arm and his chin looking over her shoulder at the sketchbook. She can feel the heat of him from where the blanket slipped, causing her to shiver slightly (thankfully unnoticed).

            "So how do they work?" His voice pulls her from her thoughts.

            "Oh right!" She takes the brush and scans the page for a starting point, "As I said, I like the brush." She decides on the middle where the sunlight was rippling on the water, "It's easier to control the movements with each stroke." she drags the brush left then right, the water blurring the colors together softly. "It's all about how the water pulls the color in the direction." She lifts up the brush and cranes her neck to meet his eyes, "See?"

            "Mmm." His hum vibrates through her, "So each stroke has its own unique effect?"

            "Mostly it's just the direction." She raises the brush and does a downwards stroke on one of the trees lining the lake, "See how this one blends differently? It looks like the colors are sliding down the page rather than being pushed aside."

            "Interesting." He mumbles under his breath and Clarke can't help but laugh.

            She holds the brush out to him. "Want to try?"

            "I don't know, I wouldn't want to mess up your drawing."

            "Nonsense." She nudges him with her shoulder, "You'll do fine."

            He gives her a skeptical look but concedes, "Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you." He slides his arm back from around her and grabs the brush and Clarke slides the book  onto his lap. The brush hovers over the page as he looks for a place to begin, "Any preference on where I screw this up?"

            She rolls her eyes and leans over so their positions are swapped, her chest against his arm and looking around his shoulder (because he's too tall even sitting down) and lays her hand over his, guiding it down where she first started. "Try here." She slowly lowers his hand, "Start by blending the water together," she moves their hands in a long swipe to the right and back again, "With long strokes like these."  She guides his hand for a couple more strokes before she slowly lifts her hand away, letting him try on his own. Instead of watching the brush, Clarke finds herself raising her gaze to his face. His brow is knit again and his lower lip is jutted out slightly, as if this were a test instead of a spontaneous art lesson. (Not that letting him drag a brush across a page taught him much.)

            "Like this?" His hand stills and his eyes meet hers. She can feels her face heat at being caught staring and quickly turns her face back to the page.

            "Yeah, just like that." She smiles, "Regular Picasso."

            He laughs at that. "Hardly. I think I'm more of a Van Gogh."

            She snorts, "Okay, yeah sure, hot shot."

            "Hey!" He nudges her, making her turn around, "I'll have you know that this could be the start of a long and promising art career."

            "I'll believe it when I see it." She nudges him back.

            He opens his mouth to retort (probably something snarky, knowing him) when Clarke's phone buzzes against the wood of the dock. Both their heads snap in the direction of the noise and when it doesn't stop buzzing, Clarke knows it's another phone call. Finn if she had to guess. Or her mother. (Neither sounded like an appealing option.)

            "Wow, just got your phone back and people are already calling you." Bellamy reaches for the phone before she can stop him. "You must be miss pop-" His mouth snaps shut when his eyes fall to the screen, his jaws tight and lips pressed into a thin line. Clarke follows his gaze, her eyes landing on Finn's name.

            "Forget him, Bellamy." Clarke reaches for the phone, "Just let me reject the call."

            But Bellamy holds the phone out of her reach and swipes his thumb across the screen. Clarke freezes mid reach when she realizes what he's doing. He accepts the call.

            "Clarke! Please, you have to talk to me! I need to tell you something, okay?" Finn's voice spills from the receiver in a rush.

            "No, actually, she doesn't." Bellamy's voice growls and Clarke can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

            "Bellamy?" Finn asks, clearly confused. "What the fuck are you-"

            Bellamy cuts him off, "You listen and you listen well, _Spacewalker_." His lip curls at the nickname, "You and Clarke are done. Over. _Finished_. No more calling her, no more texting her, not so much as a glance in her direction, do you hear me?" He snarls, "Because if word gets around to me that you're still bugging her, you're not going to walk away with a busted nose this time." He yanks the phone down and jams his finger down the on the end call button before Finn can even respond. Clarke just stares in complete shock. (She's pretty sure her mouth would be hanging open if she didn't mentally make sure it didn't.)

            Clarke stares at Bellamy, her mind racing too fast for words to form. Bellamy glares over the lake, determined to ignore her.

            "Bellamy." Her mind finally catches up.

            "No, you know what Clarke? It needed to be done!" He growls whipping around to face her. "Collins had no fucking right to be calling you after everything he's done. No fucking right."

            "Bellamy." She tries again, but he's not having it.

            "Collins is lucky it was a phone call, because if I saw his face I-"

            "Bellamy!"

            "No." He raises his hand in defense. "I know what you're going to say. I get that I might have over stepped with that phone call. I get you don't need my help, but guys like him just make me so mad." His jaw tightens, "I mean just imagine if he did something like that to _Octavia-_ " his face darkens, "I'd kill him."

            "Bellamy!" She lays a hand on his shoulder and he flinches. "Are you done?"

            "Clarke-" He starts, but she squeezes his shoulder.

            "Thank you."

            "I- W-what?" He sputters.

            "Thank you." She sighs and her shoulder sag, "Just thank you."

            He stares at her for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Am I missing something?"

            Clarke can't help but chuckle, "No. It's just…." She pauses, "You are right, I _don't_ need someone to protect me, not you, not Jasper and Monty, nobody. But still," her eyes meet his, "Thank you for standing up for me, for having my back. Really, thank you."

             Silence falls over them once more and Clarke picks at the frayed edges of the blanket trying to ignore the flush of her cheeks and drumbeat in her chest.

            "You don't have to thank me, Clarke." He says at last. She nods her head, not sure what else to say. They sit in silence once more, until he picked up the discarded paint brush. "Mind if I try again?"

 

* * *

 

            They ended up staying on the dock for another few hours. Once Finn's phone call melted away from their thoughts, they fell into an easy pattern. Bellamy would continue blending together her lines and Clarke picked up Bellamy's book where he had left off. She would read aloud, only pausing to comment on how much of a nerd he was to read things like this for _fun_. He would retort with something witty and she would spin it right back at him. It was relaxing, no it was more than that. It was _fun_.

            "Well Clarke, I think it's done." Bellamy presents the finished picture, and Clarke sets down the book to look it over, tilting the sketchbook to face her.

            "I think you're right, Bell." She quickly scans the page, "Not bad for a rookie."

            He smirks, "Totally Van Gogh."

            She throws her head back in laughter and takes the book from his lap, "Uh- huh." She tears the page out and hands it Bellamy, "Well Mr. Van Gogh, everyone deserves to keep their first piece."

            Bellamy laughs and takes the paper, "Oh you're so gracious Ms. Griffin."

            Clarke cringes, "Never call me that again." Bellamy laughs louder and she cracks a smile of her own.

            "Okay then, _Clarke_." He pushes himself up and extends a hand for her, "Shall we return inside? I don't know about you, but I could use something hot."

            Clarke slips her hand in his and shivers as his cold fingers lightly wrap around hers. They had been out so long, Clarke could barely feel the tip of her own nose, though it was a bright red from what she could see (and all the Rudolph jokes Bellamy made ). "I would love some coffee about now."

            He pulls her up, "Coffee it is."

            They gather up their belongings and head back to the cabin. When they stumbled back in through the back door, Octavia shot up from her spot on the couch, phone in hand and blanket laid over her stomach.

            "I'll call you right back!" She quickly says into the receiver before hanging up on whoever was on the other line.

            Bellamy stops and raises an eyebrow, "Who was that?"

            "No one." Octavia huffs, crossing her arms, "You don't need to know _everything_ that goes on in my life."

            Bellamy's eyes narrow in a slight glare, "Right…"

            "Is this what it's like to have siblings?" Clarke asks, "Because I have to say, this is pretty entertaining."

            "I'll trade you. You can have my brother and I'll take the single child life." Octavia offers and Bellamy scoffs.

            "Yeah, okay, O." Bellamy shrugs off his coat and throws it at Octavia, who only just manages to catch it, "I'm going to make some coffee, while you can put that away."

            Octavia throws the garment on the ground, "Put your own damn coat away!"

            "Love you too, O." Bellamy disappears through the arch leading to the kitchen.

            "So," Clarke plops down next to Octavia on the couch, "What's his name?" She asks after making sure Bellamy is out of earshot.

            Octavia grins mischievously, "Oh I think you know him." She leans back against the arm of the couch, "Tall, dark, and handsome? Tattoos for days." She swoons, "Makes a good cup of coffee and an even better screwball."

            "Lincoln?" Clarke laughs, "Oh Bellamy is _not_ going to like that."

            "Well Bellamy can bite me." Octavia huffs, "Besides I'm an adult, I can date who I please!"

            Clarke raises her hands to calm the younger Blake down, "Hey, you'll get no argument from me, Lincoln's a great guy. One of the best, actually. Just be careful of his sisters, Anya is silent but deadly and Indra is just scary."

            Octavia beams, "Noted. So, Clarke." She miles

            "Uh oh." Clarke throws a glance over her shoulder to make sure that they were still alone. Clarke knows that smile. It's the smile that says Octavia's up to of her plans. "What did you do?"

            "Nothing _bad_." She defends, "I just invited Lincoln over for New Years, that's all."

            Clarke just stares at her, "You realize that Bellamy is going to have a cow right?"

            "I don't see why! Jasper and Monty are coming, so what's one more?"

            "Well for one, Lincoln isn't coming as a friend. He's coming as a date."

            "He's not-" Clarke just gives her a look, "Okay, so fine,  he's a date! So what!"

            "Bellamy is going to freak." Clarke shakes her head.

            "Not if he doesn't find out." Octavia's grin grows wider.

            "No." Clarke points a finger, "I know what you're thinking, and no."

            "But Clarke!"

            "No, Octavia. I'm not helping you lie to Bellamy."

            Octavia scrambles over and yanks Clarke's hands into her lap, "It won't be lying, just omitting the little fact that Lincoln is coming."

            "And when Lincoln shows up? Then what?" Clarke raises an eyebrow.

            "Then… Oh I don't know. I'll figure that part when I get there."

            "Bad idea, Octavia. Just tell him."

            "But you said he's going to _freak_!" She whines.

            "Because he is! Your brother is the exact definition of overprotective, he's going to freak no matter what." Clarke levels her gaze with Octavia's, "So better to get it over with now, rather than when it's too late."

            "Will you help me talk to him?"

            Clarke frowns, "I'm not sure it's really my place, but if you want my help, then yes. I'll help you talk to him."

            "Great! But give me a couple days okay?" Clarke gives her a skeptical look, "No seriously, I just want to make sure that this thing with Lincoln is actually going to go anywhere before I talk with B, okay? Promise."

            "Fine. A couple of days, but no more." Clarke sighs.

            "Thank you!" Octavia wraps her in a tight hug, before jumping up from the couch and walking toward the stairs, "Now if you will excuse me, I'm going to call Lincoln back."

            Clarke chuckles and her eyes land on Bellamy's discarded coat on the ground, "Wait!" She calls after her, "Aren't you going to take his coat?"

            "Pfft." Octavia rolls her eyes, "No." She disappears up the steps.

            Clarke shakes her head with a small laugh and picks up the coat. _Siblings_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you all for sticking with this story, even though I know not all of you enjoy the slow burn, but still it means a lot!
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @ [AwfullyBashful](http://awfullybashful.tumblr.com/) and yell at me about Bellarke or this story, I love meeting you guys!


	8. Sugar We're Going Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been 3 days since Christmas and Clarke has fallen into a comfortable pattern with the Blakes. That is until they get a certain guest that throws a wrench in their routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you couldn't tell by the summary, I add in yet another one of our beloved characters, and let me just say, they are one of my favorite of the 100. My problematic fave if you will ;) Again so sorry for the wait for this chapter, school started and my creative writing class (more reading less writing really) is piling on stacks of work, but I promise to keep working on this fic! There will one more chapter before something BIG happens so look forward to that :D
> 
> As always thanks for all the Kudos and Comments, they give me life and a smile for days!

The next three days at the Blake cabin went by in a blur of chilly afternoons sitting on the floor of Octavia's room talking about God knows what (or who for that matter), late nights squished between the two bickering siblings during move nights (because Octavia absolutely refused to pick anything beside RomComs and women empowerment films and Bellamy's inability to shut his mouth at any ~~and all~~ historical inaccuracies). Most of Clarke's evening were spent with Bellamy, either down by the lake or, if the weather was particularly chilly that day, in Bellamy's room, Bellamy sprawled across the bed and Clarke resting on the floor beside him (she wouldn't dare sit on his bed for fear her mind would go places that it just didn't need to be.) Sometimes they'd have another impromptu art lesson, but more often than not, they just enjoyed the other's presence. It is on the third day their little routine is thrown off.

            Clarke and Bellamy are sitting on the second floor couch, her feet thrown over his lap and his arms resting gently on top, when Octavia bursts from her room (where she had not so surprisingly been napping) and drapes herself on the back of the couch. Her long hair tumbles from her messy bun and spills itself across Clarke's legs, tickling them through her stockings.

            "I'm bored!" She whines, voice muffled by the cushion.

            "Well maybe if you didn't spend your entire day lazing around and napping, you'd find the day a lot more interesting." Bellamy grumbles, throwing her hair to the side.

            "But B!" She whips her head around, sending the locks loose once more (and hitting Clarke square in the face.)

            "Watch your mane!" Clarke spits out a couple of strands stuck to her lips, "I rather not eat your hair."

            Octavia flashes her a grin and quickly resumes her pouting, "B!"

            "What?" He flips a page clearly not impressed.

            "Entertain me."

            "Entertain yourself."

            "Hmph!" Octavia huffs before sliding over the back and wiggling her way under his arms. "I will not be ignored."

            Bellamy groans before trying to push her off with his elbows, "Get off, O. You're not 5 anymore!"

            They grapple some more when Clarke pulls her feet away before they can get caught up in the struggle. "Really you two?" They ignore her.

"Come on B! Let's go to town or something!"

"No." Bellamy hits her hand with his book, "Go away."

"Why not?! I'm sure you're just as bored as I am! All you've been doing is sitting around with Clarke reading your dumb history book."

"One, you got me this 'dumb history book,' so this is sort of your fault. Two," he arches and eyebrow, "maybe I _like_ spending time with Clarke. Did you consider that?"

Clarke's stomach flips and a rush of heat races up her neck and settles in her cheeks. _Calm down!_ She chastises, _You're making a big deal out of nothing. It's not as if you hate spending time with him either._ She shakes her head lightly, _It's a mutual feeling, nothing more._

            "Nerd." Octavia scoffs and Bellamy pinches her side. "Ow!"

            "Well get off me! You're heavy."

            "Oh I'm heavy am I?" Octavia wiggles so her full weight is in his lap, "How about now? Still too heavy?"

            Bellamy tries to push her away, but she just digs her heels into the cushion, "Seriously, O!"

            "Make me!" They struggle back and forth before the doorbell rings loudly through the cabin.

            "Get off and go answer the door!"

            "You go answer the damn door!"

            "Well I can't if you don't get _off._ "

            Octavia smirks, absently examining her nails, "That sounds like a you problem."

            The doorbell rings again and Bellamy shoves harder, "Move!"

            "Nope."  There's another ring and the two siblings erupt into a tangle of limb on the floor (because if Bellamy is going to shove Octavia off, she's taking him with her). Clarke just watches from the couch with a grin on her lips.

            After the fourth ring and still no sign of the Blake siblings forgoing their battle to answer the door, Clarke peels herself off the couch and dumps her sketchbook in her spot, not that she was overly concerned the two would actually get off the floor any time soon. She pads down the steps and opens the door just after the fifth ring. Whoever is at the door, is _extremely_ impatient.

            "Hello?" She says as she swings open the door. Standing on the porch is a man with his hands shoved deep into his jeans and his back to the door. He's taller than she is (not all that surprising really) with a slender physique similar to Jasper's, but at the same time not as lanky. He's wearing a black leather jacket over a dark grey hoodie with the hood drawn over his ears, but leaving a crop of brown hair visible. "Excuse me, can I help you?"

            At her words, the man finally peeks over his shoulder and slow grin slides into place. "Now that you mention it," his grin grows predacious, "I think you can." He fully turns around and Clarke is finally able to get a good look of his face.

            His forehead is wide, setting his brows low on his dulled blue eyes and a long nose that almost blends in with the rest of his face. Her eyes flicker down to his mouth, a row of teeth lined by thin chapped lips. When her eyes meet his again, the grin only grows wider.

            She clears her throat and grips the door a little tighter in her hand, "Do you know the Blakes?"

            "You could say that." He takes a step closer, "I much more interested in getting to know you, though."

            Clarke internally groans, "Look, if you do not know the Blakes, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave." She begins to close the door when his boot stops it dead in its tracks.

            "Hey now, I know the Blakes." He smirks taking a step too close for comfort, "We go way back, Bellamy and I."

            "Then please wait here while I go get him." Clarke tries to shut the door once more, but he shoves it open with a shoulder and pushes past her.

            "No need, he knows I'm coming."

            "Really, because he didn't say anything to me." She crosses her arms in front of her chest. His eyes follow the movement and linger longer than she's comfortable with. She's suddenly regretting her choice (not that she had much of one thanks to Octavia) in clothing today. It was another dress, this time a simple long sleeve burgundy umber that cinches at the waist and flows out with a pleat skirt. The neckline is also the lowest of all the others.

            "Why would he?" He circles around her and closes the door, "Bellamy's never been known to be very," his eyes drop down before flickering back up to hers, his smirk growing, "Informative with his fuckbuddies. Though I gotta say, you're the first to make it to the cabin, congrats."

            "E _-excuse_  me?" Clarke sputters and her face flushes with anger. "What the _fuck_ did you just call me?"

            He quirks an eyebrow, "Not a fan of the term? How about booty call? Sex monkey? That one always was my favorite."

            Clarke feels her hands bunch at her sides and she has to mentally restrain herself from physically attacking him. "I don't know who you think you are, but I think you better leave, before I _make_ you."

            "Aw," he lowers his head so he's level with her, "Did I hurt your feelings?"

            She flexes her hand, "You know what-"

            "Clarke? " Her head snaps up to see Bellamy's mop of brown curls peaking over the railing. When his eyes flicker over to the guy beside her, his face hardens and he flies down the stair. He ignores the guy, settling for crossing over to her side and acting as a buffer between the two. His eyes lower into a glare. "Murphy."

            "Bellamy."

            "What are you doing here?"

            "Aw don't be like that." Murphy slips his hands back into his pockets, "You know I can never stay away from you guys."

            "Bullshit. We haven't heard from you in months." Clarke watches as Bellamy visibly deflates, but he doesn't make to move from his spot.

            Murphy just shrugs, "Was out of town for a bit wrapping a couple things up." His eyes flicker over Bellamy's shoulder and leers at Clarke, "But if I'd known you would have gotten me a Christmas present, I would have come sooner."

            "Back off Murphy." Bellamy growls. Murphy raises his hands in surrender. His eyes never leave Clarke.

            "What the hell is going on?" Everyone turns to see Octavia bouncing down the stairs. When her eyes settle on Murphy, she grimaces (a reaction Clarke is beginning to think is common when someone see him). "Urgh, why are you here."

            "Missed you too, Tav." Murphy snorts, "I just know how sad you get when you don't see me for too long."

            Octavia rolls her eyes, "Always a pleasure, Murphy." She turns to Clarke, "Clarke, this comedian over here is Murphy. Long time asshole and occasional family bum." She ignores Murphy's indignant "Hey!" She gestures to Clarke, "Murphy, Clarke. Actual friend from B's school."

            Clarke frowns, "We've met."

            They all stand in silence, Octavia eyes shuffling between Clarke, Murphy, her brother, and back again. "Right..." She drags out the last syllable, "Well I'm going to go back upstairs and call to see when Jasper is going to head up." She turns to climb the stairs, "You know, before things get even _more_ awkward down here." She disappears up the steps.

            "Well then." Clarke clears her throat after a moment, when it was clear neither of the boy were going to make a move. "If it's all the same to you two, I'm going back upstairs." She gives Murphy a pointed stare, "Don't follow."

            She pats Bellamy's shoulder as she passes and climbs the steps after Octavia. At first, she planned to go back to her room, when she spots her sketchbook still resting on the couch and remembers the unfinished sketch the Blakes sidetracked with their little skirmish. Plopping down on the cushion previously occupied by Bellamy, Clarke pulls the book into her lap and traces the crown impression (she ended up finishing her other book with Bellamy in the past three days) with a finger. She barely opened the book, when the couch dips in and she raises her gaze to see Murphy slumped down next to her.

            "I thought I said not to follow." She quips.

            "So you're an artist huh?"

            "Did you not hear me? I said go away."

            He smirks, sliding closer. "Actually, you said 'I thought I said not to follow,' not go away."

            "It was implied." She deadpans slamming her book close to give him a pointed look.

            "You wound me." He places a hand over his heart, "And here I thought we were getting to be friends."

            "Nope, you're still a creep. Leave."

            "Oh come on, Princess." She raises an eyebrow. (What was it with everyone and this damn nickname?) "Your sketchbook has a crown impression on it. Not much of a leap." (Thanks Bell.)

            "Awesome, you can see, but can you hear? Leave."

            He scoots even closer, until his thigh presses against her own and he is leaning over her knees, "Don't be like that." His smile grows, "Draw me like one of your French girls."

            "That's it!" Bellamy appears from behind the couch and yanks Murphy by the hood and force him from his seat. "Off to the basement with you."

            Clarke's head perks up, "Basement? There's a _basement_?"

            They both stop in their tracks and throw a glance her way. Bellamy's reads more like a _really_ while Murphy's (as usual) makes her skin want to crawl. "Oh yeah, it's this cozy little space with a pool table that you would look just _great_ splayed upon na-"

            "Murphy." Bellamy growls, his grip tightening hard enough for Clarke to wince, "Out. Now." He shoves Murphy towards the stairs.

            Murphy raises his hands in surrender, "Alright man, be like that. Don't share." He winks at Clarke, "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

            "Forget it." She rolls her eyes, "I rather claw out my eyes."

            "A girl after my own heart." Bellamy shoves him again, "Okay, geez, I'm going." He tucks his hands back into his pockets and disappears down the steps without another word.

            "Well he's charming." Bellamy raises an eyebrow, "No seriously. The picture of a gentleman." She nudges him with her arm, finally earning her the slightest hint of a smile.

            "Ha ha. Very funny."

            "I'm hilarious."

            "Clarke." All traces of the smile were gone, "Watch your back around Murphy, alright?"

            "Ah he's harmless. All bark and no bite." She pats the seat next to her.

            He hesitates for a second, but settles down next to her all the same, "I'm serious Clarke. Murphy isn't the type of guy you want to be alone in an alley with."

            "I'm not sure I'd be okay with _anyone_ alone in an alley." She pauses, "Don't look at me like that. How bad can he actually be?" She rests her hands in her lap, "You guys seem close. Well maybe tolerable would be a better word. He comes to the cabin and you must like him enough to actually let him stay instead of kicking his ass out in the cold."

            "It's-" He stops, running a hand through his curls and resting it on the back of his neck, "It's complicated." He pauses.

            "I'm going to need a little more than that." She pushes.

            He groans, "Murphy is a part of my life that I'm not the proudest of, okay? In fact I'm not even sure I like the guy. I broke his fucking jaw once, you know."

            "Okay now I _need_ this story." She smiles and knocks him with her shoulder.

            "He tried to hang me!" He defends, but stops short, "Well I mean I _guess_ I tried to hand him first, but-"

            Clarke waves her hands in his faces, "Whoa! What?! You need to start from the beginning."

            A smirk slowly pulls on his lips, "Nah." He bumps her back, "I think I'll keep a little mystery to the tale. That way I seem cool."

            "What you seem is lame."

            "You're lame."

            "Great come back. Where'd you get that one? A five year old?" He nudges her harder, but doesn't move back. "Back up" She shoves him back, but he doesn't budge. She tries again, but still nothing. "It's called a personal bubble, Bell."

            He grins and presses closer. "What personal bubble?" He's scooting closer and closer until the arm of the couch is digging into her back and her knees are pressed firmly against her chest.

            "You're squishing me!" She tries to kick him, but he pins her ankles with a hand.

            "I'm sorry? Am I too close?"

            "Yes!" She squeaks.

            "What was that?"

            She tries to leverage herself against the arm to push him off, turning her head to the right, but it only wins her a couple of inches before he recaptures them. "Bell!" When she turns her face back, Bellamy's is inches from her own. So close she could feel his breath tickle against her lips, which were only a hair length away from his own. She flicks her eyes up to his and finds them a dark pool of brown a shade darker than they usually are. Her breath catches in her throat and she just stares into their abyss for a moment.  He was so close, if she just lean in a little she would-

            She abruptly turns her head, "Alright you win, get off."

            He lingers for a moment, but slowly pulls away, "Yeah, right. Sorry." He scratches the back of his neck again, "Just be careful okay?"

            She sighs, "Okay I'll keep an eye on him. But I'm telling you, he's harmless. Nothing's going to happen."

            "Yeah yeah." He waves her off and peels himself from the cushion. He offers a hand and she takes it.

            "So…" She grins, "Want to go play pool?"

            "Clarke." He gives her a look, "Seriously?"

            "What?" She says innocently. When it's clear it's not going to work, she switches up her tactic. "Oh come on! I didn't even know there was a pool table until a few minutes ago! Now all I can think about is kicking your ass in a game."

            "Oh you think you can beat me, can you?" He raises and eyebrow and she knows she's won.

            "With one hand tied behind my back." She is very confident at her pools skill.(Jasper likes to drag her and Monty out to the campus center to play late at night.)

            He thinks about it for a moment, probably weighing the pros and cons of going down where he banished Murphy. "Okay, fine. You're on. Loser washes the dishes tonight."

            "You're on."

 

* * *

 

            Clarke kicked his ass at pool just like she knew she would. She had just beaten him for the third time, when he raised his hands in defeat and, begrudgingly, told her she won. Clarke didn't let him live it down for the next few minutes. That is exactly how Clarke found herself being kicked out from the kitchen and being put on table setting duty.

            "Whatever sore loser!" She calls over her shoulder, as she throws open the cupboard with the table cloths.

            "You burn everything you touch." He calls back, not bothering to look up from the pot.

            "Not true!"

            "It kind of is." Octavia calls from the fridge. (She came down the minute she smelled something cooking.)

            "Traitor." Clarke mutters under her breath, pulling free the first cloth from the stack.

            "I don't like my food burnt beyond recognition."

            "That wasn't my fault! The box said 15 minutes!" She slams the cupboard closed, "How am I supposed to know you never follow the time they _tell_ you."

            "Yeah yeah." Bellamy waves her off, "Just go get the plates."

            "Fine." She huffs and stomps over to the pantry.

            Now if you asked Clarke why the Blakes kept their plates (not even the good china, the basic feed yourself plates) in the pantry, she wouldn't be able to tell you. They just do. But that's beside the point. The point is that they keep the plates in the pantry on the top shelf. And the step stool is missing.

            "Of course the step stool is missing." Clarke mutters to herself, "I bet Bellamy planned this." She stretches onto the tips of her toes trying to reach, "I bet he's having a grand old time laughing it up. Well it's not my fault I'm short!" The tips of her fingers brush the glass edge, "Oh come on." She grabs a lower shelf and tries to leverage herself past that final inch.

            "Need some help?" A voice smirks from behind her.

Clarke slips and jerks her arm back down, slamming her elbow into she shelf below. "Jesus! Ow!"

            "I prefer Murphy, or John if we're getting really intimate." He smirks, "Naked intimate."

            Clarke whips around to see Murphy leaning in the doorframe. From the looks of it, it is the only thing keeping him vertical. She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest, absently rubbing the spot she hit, "What do you want Murphy?"

            A sloppy grin crawls on his face and instantly, Bellamy's warning is ringing in the back of her head. _Murphy isn't the type of guy you want to be alone in an alley with._ She pushes it down. Really, what harm can Murphy really do if he can barely stand straight?

            He stumbles forward, "I just came for-" He leans in, trapping her where she stands. Her body tenses and takes an involuntary step back. He reeks of booze. His grin sharpens and his eyes flicker over her, his gaze steadily becoming clearer. He reaches for something behind her, "This," and pulls free an unmarked bottle of amber liquid. "Want some?" Emphasizing his question with a little shake of the bottle.

            "I'm good." Clarke eyes the bottle warily. "I think you've had enough though." She reaches for the bottle.

            "I don't think I've had nearly enough." He laughs, yanking back the bottle to take a long pull of the liquor.

            "Whatever." She rolls her eyes. If he wants to drink himself into oblivion, that's his problem. (Not to mention there is an alarm going off in the back of her mind.) "Go drink somewhere else, then." She turns her back to him, reaching for the plates once more.

            "Aw come on, don't be like that." He slides closer, lining himself against her back, "I thought we were getting to be friends."

            Clarke turns around and shoves him away from her, "Back up, Murphy."

            "What?" He steps closers to her once more, "Don't worry, Bellamy doesn't have to know."

            "Don't make me say it again, Murphy. Back off." She goes for the plate once more, when she feels a slight pinch on her thigh.

            "You have the most amazing legs I've seen in a while." He purrs. She whip around a throws a punch. He dodges in the last moment and grabs her wrist. "Whoa there! We've got a feisty one!" His grip tightens when she tries to tug it away. "I like a girl with spark."

            "Let go of my wrist and I'll show you some real spark." She barks.

            He opens his mouth, a grin slowly spreading on his lips (like he's laughing at some joke) when Bellamy walks into the room.

            "Hey what's taking so long? Did you fall and-" He stops mid-step, his eyes flickering over the two. Clarke and Murphy are crowded into a corner, her wrist gripped tightly in his hand. All in all, it wasn't the most reassuring scene and Bellamy's face darkens. He storms over and rips them apart, flinging Murphy into the opposite wall. Boxes of cereal as well as a few cans come tumbling down around him.

            "Bellamy!" Clarke gasps.

            He whips around, eyes hard and jaw taunt with barely contained fury. "Did he hurt you?"

            She shies away from his words, "Bell, I'm fine. Everything is okay. He was just-"

            "Did. He. Hurt. You."

            "He's drunk Bellamy. He didn't mean anything." She meant for her words to console him, but it seems to have only sent him into a blind rage.

            Bellamy whirls around and swings his fist into Murphy's face. A sickening crack fills the air as Murphy cowers cradling his nose, a gush of blood spilling out through his fingers. He lowers his hand to see them stained with blood and curls it into a fist. "You son of a bitch." He lunges for Bellamy and they go sailing into the wall next to Clarke. "You are going to pay for that." He lands a punch square into Bellamy's jaw.

            Bellamy shoves him off and tackles Murphy through the doorway. From there on it erupted into a full on fight, spilling into the hall, and finally crashing into the kitchen.

            "Bellamy!" Clarke calls after them, but they can't hear her over the rushing of blood in their ears and the all consuming rage. She eventually gives up and calls for help. "Octavia!"

            Bellamy manages to knock Murphy to the ground and proceeds to climb on top of him and begins wailing on him. Unable to wait for the younger's girls help, Clarke rushes over to pull them apart. When Bellamy's fist raises for another blow, she jumps forward and yanks his arm back, barely managing from stopping the next blow. " _Bellamy!_ "

            Bellamy's whole body tenses and she's easily able to haul him off Murphy. She spare a glance in his direction to see the entire front of his shirt stained with blood. He cracks a smile, blood staining his teeth like he just ate a raw piece of meat. Bellamy seems to have come to his sense, because he starts struggling against her grip trying to get at him again.

            "Let me go Clarke. I'm going to finish what I started years ago!" He growls.

            "No." She pushes him back a few steps, "This fight is over. Back off."

            "But-"

            "No buts, Bellamy! Look at him!" She waves a hand over Murphy, "He's had enough."

            Octavia chooses that exact moment to fly into the kitchen, "What's going on?!" She takes one look at Murphy laying on the floor and rolls her eyes, "Are you two at this again?" She throws her hands up in the air, "I swear! You two just can't make it a day without knocking the shit out of each other, can you?"

            "Not helping, Octavia." Clarke chides.

            She shakes her head, "You want my advice? Let them duke it out. They'll tire eventually."

            "Great idea." Bellamy takes a step forward.

            " _No_." Clarke places a hand on his chest. "Go cool down  or something."

            "Clarke-"

            "Go." She levels her gaze with his and stands her ground. He stares at her for a moment, mouth slightly parted, before his jaw tenses and his eyes slit into a glare. He spares one glance at Murphy (who had unsuccessfully been trying to smother his snickering) before spinning on his heels and tearing out of the room. Clarke watches him go. Murphy cackles.

            Octavia shakes her head, "You're all idiots." She points at Clarke, "You deal with it." She storms out of the kitchen and out to the back patio.

            Clarke rests her hands on her hips and lets loose a much needed sigh. _How'd I get left with this mess?_ She shakes her head at the thought and turns around to see Murphy picking himself off the floor. She lends him a hand.

            "Well that was fun." He smirks. She levels him with a punch. "OW!"

            "That's for causing this whole mess!" She shakes out her fist.

            "I concede! Damn. Hit a guy when he's down…"

            She cocks an eyebrow, "Are you saying you didn't deserve it?"

            He grins, "Oh I did. Still." He tries to touch his nose, but flinches at the slightest contact, "Did you have to aim for the nose?"

            She shrugs, but doesn't say anything more. She helps him up from the floor (for a second time) and sets him in a stool next to the island. After digging around for a cloth, she runs it under the tap and dabs at his nose, trying to clean up the blood. He flinches at each pat.

            "What are you, some kind of doctor?"

            "Close enough." She dabs a little harder than necessary, "Pre-med."

            "Beauty and brains." She pulls away the cloth and give him a look, "Couldn't help myself." He grins.

            "Well you better learn. Bellamy was ready to do some serious damage."

            "You know he tried to hang me right?"

            "From what I was told, so did you."

            He laugh at that. "I guess you're right."

            "What kind of fucked up friendship is this?" When he doesn't answer, she continues to wipe away the blood until it was almost all gone. She sets down the cloth and inspects the bone. "Well good news, it's not broken. Bad news," he flinches at her touch, "it's going to hurt like hell for a few days."

            He smirks, "Nothing new." She rolls her eyes and turns away to wring out the cloth under some water. The water almost runs clean before he speaks again. "I met him when I was in Jr.  high." She pauses in her work and shuts off the water. "We were just a couple of kids angry at the world. Tempers too hot to control and enough mommy and daddy issues to send us down the wrong path. " He laughs bitterly, "Some of us more than others."

            "What changed?" She asks finally.

            He shrugs, "Bellamy's old lady died and he had to take care of Tav. He got out of it and I didn't. Not until I got pinched for a drunken bar fight."

            "You went to juvy for a bar fight?"

            "Being underage didn't really help my case. Neither did beating a guy into a coma."

            "What'd he do?" She asks after a moment. Out of curiosity or shock she doesn't know.

            "Doesn't matter." He shrugs it off, "He woke up after a couple of weeks if that is any consolation."

            She folds her arms, "You tell me."

            He laughs, "It cut my sentence, so there's that."

            "How long have you been out?"

            "Couple years now?" He shrugs, "Can't say for sure. Been filling my time with odd jobs here and there. Some legal, some not."

            They stand in silence for a few moments before Clarke turns around to face him. "Why are you telling me this?"

            "Why not." She raises an eyebrow, not quite ready to accept his answer just yet. "What?"

            She shakes her head, giving up. "Nothing." She pushes herself away from the counter, "Put some ice on that and the swelling should go down in an hour or two." He grunts something of an acknowledgement and she takes that as her cue to leave.

 

* * *

 

            By the time Clarke manages to both find the first aid kit and climb the stairs to Bellamy's room, she finds the door cracked open and Bellamy sitting on the edge of his bed. She bumps open the door with her hip and walks into the room.

            "Okay." She sets herself down on the floor in front of him. "Let's see those hands." She reaches for them, only for him to quickly pull them away.

            "My hands are fine."

            "Are you kidding me?" She reaches for one and hold it at eye level, "Your knuckles are all scratched up. They need to be cleaned." He goes to pull his hand away, but her grip tightens, "Try and move your hand one more time and I'm going to sit on you."

            "I can do it myself." He grumbles, but doesn't try to pull away again.

            "Well why do it yourself when I'm offering?" She twist off the cap off the disinfectant and rip open a pack of cotton balls. "So," she starts dabbing his cuts, "You want to tell me what that was all about?"

            He grimaces, "He had it coming."

            "He was drunk. Like so drunk, he couldn't stand without support."

            "He was drunk enough to hurt you!" His fingers curls into a fist, "Imagine if I wasn't there to intervene. What would have happened then?"

            She stop, raising her eyes to meet his, "Then I would have decked him with the hand he wasn't holding."

            "You can't know-"

            "Actually I do." She presses the cotton into another cut, "The only reason he had my wrist in the first place is because I took a swing at him." Her lips tug into a slight smile, "He may have seen the first one coming, but he sure as hell wouldn't have seen the next."

            "Why were you even alone with him?!" He growls, "I told you to stay away from him."

            "Why does this sound like you're blaming me for all of this?" She throws down the cotton ball and glares at him, "I'm not the one who got into a fist fight in the middle of the kitchen."

            "No you're just the one who-"

            She abruptly stand up, "I'm just the one who what?" She crosses her arm, "Tell me Bellamy, how it is _my_ fault Murphy corners me in the pantry getting the plates _you_ sent me to get? Please I'm _dying_ to know." 

            "Who the hell wears a dress in the middle of winter?!" He roars back, pushing himself off the bed to meet her glare, "Did you not see the way he was looking at you?" He steps closer, "He was eyeing you like a piece of meat."

            "Two things, Blake," She shove him back until he stumbles onto the bed, "What _I_ wear is _my_ business and you don't get a _fucking say_  in it." She spit, her arms falling to her side in fists, "And two, the only reason he was looking at me like anything is because he thought we were _fucking_ and he wanted to get to _you_."

            Bellamy winces, "Clarke-"

            "No." She points a finger at him threateningly, "You started this and you're damn well going to sit there and listen to what I have to say." Only when he snaps his mouth close does she continue. "How dare you imply that by somehow choosing to wear a dress, I somehow made myself a target to Murphy. Do you understand how ridiculous that sounds?!"

            "Clarke-" She levels him with a gaze.

            "And you!" She throws her hands up, "I thought you were a better guy than that, Bellamy. I really did. Because right now you just sound like a misogynist asshole who thinks that women are responsible for when men like Murphy can't keep it in his pants and push themselves onto women."

            "He was drunk, Clarke! He could have done anything because he wasn't fucking thinking!"

            "Again how it that my fault!" She screams. Her voice echoes throughout the room and she can feel a headache beginning to pound against her skull. She pinches the bridge of her nose to ward it off. "Just forge-"

            "No you're right." He shakes his head softly, "You're completely right. I was being an asshole and-" he scrubs a hand over his face, "Jesus, Clarke I don't think you realize how good you look." Clarke's cheeks flush at the compliment, but opens her mouth to reply indignantly. "No, let me finish. I'm not saying you're to blame, I'm saying that I couldn't think of any other reason for him _not_ to go after you. I mean what kind of guy would just sit there and _not_ make a move on you? But you're right, he was doing it to get to me." He grips his knees tightly, "Because that's the fucked up relationship we have; just waiting to the other show a weak spot."

            "Why?" She lets her hands relax with a sigh, "Why are you two even 'friends' if all you do is go at each other's throats?"

            He shrugs at that, "I have no idea. I guess because even after all of this shit, we have each other's backs when it counts?" He scrubs another hand over his face, "It's all too fucked up to tell. He resents me for straightening out and I resent him for reminding me of that life."

            "You're right, that's fucked up." He laughs, "But oddly makes sense?" She shakes her head, "In a _Love the way you lie_  kind of way."

            His lip quirks up in a smile, "Is that an Eminem reference? Didn't peg you for the rap type."

            Clarke just shrugs, "Been spending too much time with Octavia."

            Bellamy just nods like he understands, "Yep, that will do it." They both laugh.

            "Come on," she picks up the disinfectant and a new cotton ball, "let's finish up with your hands then finish dinner. I'm hungry."

            "Deal."

            As it turns out, Bellamy forgot to shut off the flame before he went to go check on Clarke, so their dinner was ruined beyond salvation. They order a pizza instead, which turns out for the best (Even Murphy reappears to grab a slice before slinking back to lick his wounds god knows where). That's how Clarke finds herself back on the floor of Bellamy's room with Bellamy at her side and their backs pressed against the side of his bed.

            "Blame Octavia."

            "What?" He says in the middle of a bite.

            Clarke sets down her plate, "For the dress. I'm only wearing a dress- freezing my ass mind you- because she packed like 6 dresses and only a couple of shirts. So," she shrugs, "blame Octavia."

            "Why don't you borrow one of O's then?"

            Clarke laughs, "Because I don't know if you haven't noticed, your sister is kind of like unbelievably thin. Sure, she could maybe wear some of my stuff, but there is no way I'm going to fit all of my curves in hers." He swallows his bite of pizza and pushes himself off the floor to rummages through one of his drawers. "What are you doing?" He doesn't respond just shuts one drawer only to open another. "Bellamy."

            He pulls free a worn looking black t-shirt with a red asterisk encircled by the words: Red Hot Chili Peppers, the white lettering flaking from years of use and washes. "Here." He holds the shirt out for her to take.

            "Why are you giving me this?" She asks as she grabs the shirt. The fabric is soft beneath her finger tips.

            "Are you telling me, you rather freeze and wear a dress?"

            "No!" She clutches the shirt tightly against her chest, "I'll take the shirt."

            He smirks, "I thought so." He turns back to his pizza.

            "Thanks." She smiles against the fabric.

            "Anytime, Clarke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you all enjoy Murphy? Because I enjoyed Murphy and writing that mini rant from Clarke at the end x) 
> 
> So I've got a question for you all, I know you've mentioned liking how long my chapters are when I post them, but would you rather have shorter chapters at a more frequent rate (maybe like once a week or so) or stick to the longer chapters at my current pace (once a month if not shorter)? Let me know and I'll get back to you all with the decision!
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr @ [AwfullyBashful](awfullybashful.tumblr.com) I post updates about writing as well as blog wayy too much Bellarke as well as other fandoms!


	9. Blame it (on the Alcohol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper, Monty, and Miller finally show up to the cabin and of course, they bring booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY FOR THIS CHAPTER BEING LATE D:
> 
> School and work (I'm a writing tutor at my college) started picking up because of midterms and I just barely had any time to write. Thankfully, midterms are over and I have more time to myself. I've already have an idea of how the next chapter is going to go, all I have to is write down the outline and begin the actual writing.
> 
> Also if you didn't catch my notice before I took it down, I've decided to stick with the longer chapters for two reasons: one, i feel like the story flows better with longer chapters, letting the reader enjoy a nice long read and two, short chapters often break the continuity of the story often forgetting what happened previously. I hope you all aren't too disappointed >

"Why are you wearing my brother's shirt?" Clarke had barely made it out of her room and into the kitchen when Octavia managed to cage her in.

            "It's too early for this, Octavia. Move!" She hips checks Octavia out of the way and makes for the coffee pot and mugs.

            "Is that sex hair?!" She screeches. "That is totally _sex hair!_ " She rips out the mug from Clarke's hands, "Did you sleep with my brother?"

            "Wha-"

            "You totally slept with my brother!"

            "I-wait-what? No!" Clarke shakes her head, "I did not sleep with your brother!" She yanks the mug back and turns to the coffee pot, "Jesus, you can't just pull this shit before coffee. It's just not morally okay."

            Octavia snorts and forces Clarke around to face her once more, "You're a horrible liar. Tell me _everything_. Wait. Don't tell me everything, that's my brother." She scrunches her nose in disgust, "Tell me _almost_ everything." She pauses, "In vague detail." She nods her head like she finally deems the question ready.

            "Has anyone ever told you that your obsessions with your brother's sex life is creepy? Because it's so creepy, like Flowers in the Attic creepy."

            "You know all I heard from your mouth is that my brother _has_ a sex life, _and_ you know about it. Intimately. Because you're sleeping with him. You _are_ his sex life."

            "I'm not sleeping with Bellamy!" Clarke throws her hands up in exasperation. "I don't know how else to say it Octavia. We. Are not. Sleeping together."

            "Then why are you wearing his shirt?" Octavia asks, a smug smile on her face like she caught Clarke red handed.

            "Because you packed a million dresses for increasingly dropping temperature! It's snowing for fuck's sake and all I have is dresses with thin stockings!" Clarke points and accusing finger, " _And_ maybe I'm a little sick of freezing my ass off and just want to laze around in leggings and a t-shirt. So you're brother, being a semi-decent human being, decided to let me borrow one of his."

            "Then why didn't you ask to borrow one from me?"

            "Because I don't know if you've noticed, but you're a size zero goddess and I can't even begin to dream to fit into your clothes!"

            "Aww," Octavia's face breaks out into a huge grin, as she lays a hand over her chest, "Thanks babe."

            "You're welcome." Clarke huffs. She gives her one last look (daring her to interrupt one more time) before turning around and _finally_ pouring herself a cup of liquid gold. Apparently Octavia was only waiting until Clarke took a big sip, before laying on the next part.

            "So then why did he give you his _favorite_ shirt?" Clarke chokes. Octavia's smirk just grows wider. "See Clarke, I don't think you quite understand." She begins to circle around her, something akin to how a vulture circles its prey. "Bellamy won't let Miller or Murphy even _look_ at that shirt. Hell, he won't even let me, his darling baby sister, go anywhere near it." Her eyes sparkle with something mischievous, "So you can understand my shock when I come down stairs to see you _wearing_ said shirt. It means something, Clarke."

            Clarke's cheeks burn with embarrassment, "Yeah, it means he randomly pulled out a t-shirt and it just so happened to be his favorite one."

            Octavia raises an eyebrow, "If he did it randomly, why didn't he put it back and pull out another one?"

            "I don't know, Octavia! Maybe he didn't realize until he handed it over and then it was too late!"

            "Or you're sleeping with him."

            "For crying out loud!"

            Octavia raises her hands in defense, "Okay, okay. So you're not sleeping with him. The fact remains that by giving you _that_ shirt," She waves a hand towards it, "means something. Something big."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, "It _means_ you're reading way too much into this."

            "Or that he likes you."

            Clarke shakes her head, feigning nonchalance, but can feel the heat worming its way up her neck regardless. Octavia opens her mouth to continue, when the chime of the doorbell echoes into the kitchen. Clarke downs the remaining contents of her mug, before slamming it down on the counter.

            "I'll get it!" She rushes out the door before Octavia has a chance to stop her.

            Before she can reach the door, she spots Bellamy fumbling down the stairway. From the way his hair is tousled about and how his sweats are handing dangerously low on his hips (not that she's _staring_ ), it's clear he just crawled out of bed. She has to bite back a fond smile at the sight of his rumpled appearance and the way he rubs his eyes. (It's completely adorable.)

            "I'll get it. You can go back to sleep." She smiles at the way he freezes at the sound of her voice, almost like he didn't even hear her rush over. He blinks at her, something flashing across his face that she can't quite place. Whatever it was disappears in a second and he's shaking his head.

            "No thanks, I'm up now anyways." He shrugs but pauses the movement halfway, "You're wearing the shirt."

            Clarke quirks an eyebrow, "Did you think I wouldn't?"

            He laughs, "I don't know what I was expecting. Definitely wasn't walking down to see your tiny frame in my shirt."

            Clarke laughs (Her heart definitely _not_ skipping at the remark), "I'm practically swimming in it!" She looks down at herself. The shirt is too long for her, reaching just below the slope of her ass and effectively hiding all forms of curves besides the slight swell of her breast. She toys with the hem, giving it a little tug. "I look ridiculous."

"No," he shakes his head softly, that look returning in his eyes when his gaze returns to hers, "It looks good on you." They stand there for a moment, neither one of them sure what to say next.

            The moment is shattered when the doorbell rings for a second time."I should uh," Clarke points to the door, "get that…"

            "Yeah probably." He chuckles. Clarke waits for a moment, waiting for him to return back up the stairs, but instead he just leans against the railing (as if to get more comfortable). When she keeps staring, he lifts an eyebrow. "Well?"

            "Oh! Right," she fumbles for the door handle, "Sorry." She twists the handle and quickly pulls the door open. "Hel-" Jasper comes tumbling in, back first, and ends up sprawled on the floor. "Lo?" Clarke throw a glance over her shoulder at Bellamy to see a mirrored expression of confusion (and amusement) on his face. He shrugs his shoulders and Clarke turns back to inspect the scrawny boy still laying on the floor.

            A grin swallows his face and his eyes beam up at her, "Clarke!" She rolls her eyes and offers him a hand. "Hey, Bellamy." He gives a small wave in Bellamy's direction.

            "Jasper."

            Clarke tugs him up and he turns his smile back on her. "Miss me?"

            "Horribly." She answers with a matching grin. He yanks on her arm and pulls her into a bone crushing hug.

            "Aww! You started the hugging without me?" They breaks apart to see Monty leaning against the doorframe. "I'm hurt guys, really."

            "Monty!!" Clarke reaches to throw her arms around him for a hug. "Missed you," She mumbles into his hair. Jasper (feeling a bit left out) joins the hug, wrapping an arm around them both, "Both of you." she amends. Christmas with the Blakes was fun, but nobody could replace Jasper and Monty. They were the only people who really understood her. She raises her glance to see Bellamy watching them with a small smile. _Well maybe not the only people anymore._

            When they finally break apart, Monty jumps like he's remembered something important."Oh!" He ducks out the door and reaches for something just out of sight."I almost forgot! Look what we rescued on our way up."

            After another tug, Miller fills the doorway, two suitcases in either hand. He has a scowl on his face that only seems to disappear when Monty lays a hand on his shoulder. "I think kidnap is a more appropriate term."

            Clarke smirks, "Oh yes, I bet you _hated_ that." She winks at Monty, whose face turns a few shades shy of a tomato.

            "Please," Bellamy snorts climbing down the stairs to stand with the rest of the group, "I bet you were _begging_ for them to drive by."

            Millers eyes narrow into a glare and the air grows colder, and _not_ from the snow outside. Clarke, Monty, and Jasper share uneasy glances between them and fidget as the two boys stare each other down. Finally Bellamy cracks a smile (Jasper may or may not have muttered "Oh thank god") and reaches a hand to pat Miller's shoulder.

            "Good to see you man." Bellamy grins.

            Miller returns the smile, "Likewise."

            "Aww!" Jasper croons, "Group hug okay guys?" He throws and arm over Clarke's shoulders and drags her towards where the two boys are standing.

            "Enough hugs, Jasper!" Clarke laughs, but lets herself be pulled along the same.

            "Blasphemy!" Jasper reaches for Monty, who obliges by stepping into his reach, "There is no such thing as _enough_ hugs."

            Miller rolls his eyes, but raises his arm as Jasper guides Monty into the space. Bellamy, on the other hand, is not so indulgent. "Oh no, I'm not being a part of this." He backs away.

            "Come on, Bell. Don't you want to feel the love?" Clarke jokes, elbowing him lightly.

            He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, no."

            "Are you kidding me?!" A shrill voice yells from the kitchen doorway. They all whip around to see Octavia with her arms crossed and an annoyed look. "Not only did no one bother to tell me that Jasper is here- who _I_ _invited_ by the way- but now you were going to leave me out of the group hug?" She uncrosses her arms, "Well not on my watch!"She stalks across the room and forces her way into the group hug, shoving Clarke into the middle against Bellamy and Miller.

            "You can't be serious, O." Bellamy chuckles, trying to back away, but Octavia grips his arm and holds him in place.

            "Dead serious, B." She stands on the tips of her toes and slings an arm around his neck, bringing him down to her level. "Now get in here!" She tugs him forward and he finally relents, taking a step into the little space next to Clarke. Clarke throws him an apologetic smile and mouth, _What can you do?_ earning her an eye roll.

            "Alright! Group hug!" Jasper tightens his grip around everyone. There are a few chuckles, but no one dares to break away. It's not until someone manages to slink in the room that they are reminded of where they are.

            "God are you guy doing a group hug?" Clarke cranes her neck to see Murphy standing just a few feet away. "What a bunch of saps."

            "Fuck off, Murphy" Bellamy and Miller bark at the same time

            With the spell broken, everyone shuffles away and stares at Murphy. It's Jasper (as usual) who breaks the silence. "Who the hell is that?"

            Miller shakes his head, "No one worth mentioning."

            "Watch it, Miller." Murphy warns, a wolfish grin on his lips, "I know where you sleep."

            "Cool it Murphy," Bellamy growls

            "Make me, Blake."

            Miller rolls his eyes, "Enough children."

            "Children?" Bellamy scoffs, " May I remind you who's the oldest?"

            "Mentally, I think you're both infants." Murphy shrugs.

            They continue back and forth when Jasper leans over to Clarke, "Are they all calling each other by their last names?"

            "I think they are…" She murmurs back.

            "Do you think this is how it all started?" Monty adds in.

            "God, it's like a weird bonding ritual." Jasper whispers. "Is this how people feel when they watch us talk about science? Because I'm so sorry to everyone who's ever had to watch that."

            "If you  think this is bad," Octavia chimes in "Imagine growing up with these idiots."

            They all nod their head in agreement. "I'm so sorry, Octavia" Clarke offers with a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. Octavia lays her own over it.

            "I know. My childhood was a bizarre thing."

            "What are you three whispering about?" Bellamy asks.

            "Nothing!" They say in unison, earning them a suspicious look from the 3 boys.

            "Right…" he drawls.

            "Hey, where are my bags?" Jasper pipes up, effectively changing the subject.

            Monty and Miller roll their eyes, the latter shaking his head. "Back at the car," Monty shrugs, "Where you left them."

            "And you didn't bring them up with yours?"

            "Why would we?" Miller interjects, "You’re the one who took off and left Monty and I with all the luggage. "

            "Hey!" Jasper puts his hands on his hips, "I was scouting ahead to make sure we were at the right place!"

            Miller snorts, "I've been coming here since middle school. I think I know the way by now."

            Jasper throws his hands up, "People make mistakes!" The other two just level him with a look, "Okay, fine. Maybe I just needed to get away from the love fest that was the ride up here. A guy can only take so much shy flirting!"

            Monty's face flushes and Miller's hardens. (Clarke's pretty sure he was planning Jasper's murder by the second.) Everyone else just watches the scene with unabashed amusement. As, usual, Clarke is the one to step in to rescue the poor boy.

            "Come on, Jasper. I'll help you with your bags." She loops her arm around his.

            "Thank you!" He sniffs, "At least _someone_ -" he throws a pointed look at Monty, "is a _true_ friend." Monty, in turn, only rolls his eyes.

            "Come on," She tugs on his arm, "Let's go before you get yourself killed." With one final glare at the two, Jasper allows himself to be dragged out the door.

 

* * *

 

            They are about halfway down the driveway, when Clarke begins to regretting not grabbing a jacket (or really even think about it) before they left the cabin. Luckily, she did remember to put on a pair of boot this morning. She rubs her hands up and down her arms. Whatever, they were only going to be out for a couple of minutes anyways. They finally reach the car and sure enough, Jasper's bags are sitting there nicely stacked on the ground beside the car.

            "Well at least they didn't just throw them on the ground." She  crosses her arms, "Well let's be fair, Miller probably wanted to, but Monty isn't _that_ cruel. Usually."  She spins around, ready to grill Jasper for the details about the ride up (she's a little curious she won't lie), but Jasper had stopped a few feet behind her and was staring intently at her.

            "Are you okay, Clarke?"

            She arches an eyebrow, "Am _I_ okay? Dude you're the one looking at me like I sprouted a second head." She leans against the hood of the car, smirking. "Are you okay?"

            "I'm serious, Clarke."

            "Okay…"  The smirk falls from her face, "What's this about Jasper?"

            "Just- Are you _okay_?" He tries again

            Now she is getting worried. Jasper is rarely this serious about _anything_ , so whatever it is that's bothering him must be serious. "I'm fine, Jasper."

            "Are you sure? Because Monty and I felt like shit leaving you. Like, we were so worried Clarke. I mean, we just left you _alone_ back at the dorms on fucking _Christmas_. What kind of friends are we? Despite know this is the _first_ Christmas since-" he pauses, hands curling in fists at his side, "Knowing it was this first Christmas since _everything_." His eyes finally meet hers, "And we couldn't even call you-" His eyes divert back to the ground, "We're the fucking worst."

            "Hey," Clarke quickly closes the gap between them and cradles his face in her hands, "I'm fine." She waits until his eyes meet hers again, "I'm _fine._ I asked you to leave me Jasper, because I couldn't- I couldn't handle being around people like that. Not after-" She pushes down the lump in her throat (She won't let those thoughts ruin her break any more) "Not after everything. So I repeat, I'm fine. In fact, I'm _great_."

            "Really?" He blinks surprised and she lets her hands fall from his face.

            "Yeah." She smiles, "I mean I wasn't at first- which is to be expected!" She adds when his expression drops again, "But coming here helped." She shrugs, "Bellamy helped, made me feel like part of the family and I- I needed that." Jasper gives her a knowing look and she can feel a blush rising from her chest, "Octavia too! Both of them." She smiles, shifting her gaze to the ground, "I had a good time."

            She can feel Jasper's gaze on her for a long while, before he sighs. "Well," she looks up to meet his eyes, "I'm glad." His smile is blinding.

            "Me too."

            He throws an arm over her shoulders and tucks her into his side. "Come on, let's get these bags into the cabin before they send out the search party."

            "You're right," She warps and arm around his middle, "Besides I'm cold."

            "Well that's your fault." She pinches his side, "Ouch! It's true!" He bends down to grab the bags and hands the smaller of the two to Clarke."Oh I almost forgot." He swings them around back towards the cabin. "You're mom called."

            This time, Clarke is the one to stop dead in her tracks. "What?"

            "Oh don't worry about it," He waves a hand, walking off without her, "We took care of it."

            "And by take care of it, you mean…"

            "I mean we very politely told her to fuck off." The Cheshire cat has nothing on his smile.

            "You did not!" Clarke can't help her own grin tugging on her lips. _She had the best of friends_. "Please tell me you did _not_ tell my mother to fuck off."

            He shrugs, "Well it was mostly Monty, and not in those exact words, per say, but that was the general gist of it. He also got a bit colorful on what would happen if she called again looking for you."

            "I love you guys." She laughs.

            Jasper beams her another smile, "We know." He goes to turn around, when he stops and tilts his head. "I haven't seen that shirt before."

            Clarke shrugs, but doesn't say anything. He peers closer.

            "It's not Wells or Finn's, I think, and Monty and I don’t like Red Hot Chili Peppers" (She steals her friends' shirts from time to time, sue her) "So whose-" His mouth drops open and the suitcase clatters to the ground. "OH MY GOD ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH BELLAMY?!"

            She takes it back; she has the _worst_ friends.

 

* * *

 

            "Clarke~" Jasper whines, bending himself over her legs in his lap, "I'm hungry."

            "Me too." Monty adds from her right.

            She sighs and closes her sketchbook (she was in the middle of detailed sketch of Jasper). Sometime during the evening, after everyone settled in, they all gathered in the downstairs living room. Monty, Jasper and Clarke had squeezed themselves on the couch (Clarke obviously wedged in the middle because those two can _never_ sit next to each other without fighting), Jasper and Monty with a controller in each of their hands. Miller was on the floor between Monty's legs, a controller in his lap. Octavia, somehow, claimed the only single seat in the room and sat in it with her legs over one arm and her back pressed against the other, her eyes glued to the phone in her hand. Bellamy and Murphy are perched on either arm of the couch, Bellamy with a book and Murphy with the final controller. Everyone seemingly was getting along, except for the occasional trash talking among the four boys, but that was expected.

            "I could eat." Octavia agrees, eyes still not leaving the screen. Miller grunts his agreement.

            Clarke cranes her neck back so she can look at Bellamy, who is just shutting his book, "Up to you, Bell."

            He shrugs, "Fine. I'll go grab my phone to call the pizza place."

            Everyone groans. "No more pizza!" Clarke complains. (Hey, she's entitled to it.) "We've had that like what? 4 times since we got here? Enough is enough." Monty and Jasper nod their heads violently in agreement.

            "You two weren't even here!" Bellamy glares.

            "Yes, but you underestimate how skilled our parents are at burning a meal." Monty offers. (It's true. Their parents may be successful scientists, but cooking is not in their skill set. Clarke's seen this first hand.)

            "I agree on the no pizza. Isn't there a Chinese place around here?" Murphy yawns.

            "No one asked you." Bellamy says just as Octavia answers, "It closed down a few months ago."

            Bellamy shoots his little sister a glare, but Octavia just shrugs, "Seriously though, B. No pizza. I mean, we had it last night."

            "That wasn't my fault! Blame Murphy!"

            Murphy snorts, "I'm the one with the broken nose thanks to you." He throws a glance at Clarke when she snickers, "Then again, your girlfriend helped."

            "It's not broken and I'm not his girlfriend,"  is all Clarke offers in response.

            Miller's ears perk up and he turns to look at Clarke, "You punched Murphy?"

            "He had it coming."

            "Nice." He offers her a fist and she gladly bumps it with her own.

            "Yeah, yeah, Clarke is a bad ass. Can we get back to food?" Jasper cuts in.

            Clarke rolls her eyes, "Well a lot of the places in town are family owned right?" Bellamy nods, "I thought so. That means a lot of them probably closed for the holiday weekend besides the damn Pizza Hut…" She thinks for a moment, "How about we cook what we were going to have last night?"

            Bellamy hums in thought, "That could work. We have enough pasta to do the main dish, but we'll need a big side to feed us all."

            "We could help with a salad or something," Monty offers.

            "I could whip up something for desert." Octavia chips in.

            "I can stir." Everyone looks at Clarke, "What? I can't cook; this isn't news."

            Bellamy sighs and pushes himself of the couch. "Well I guess I better start cooking." He turns to Miller, "Miller, can you set the table? You too Murphy."

            "Why should I?" Murphy grumbles.

            "You don't work, you don't eat." Murphy mumbles something back, but it's too soft for Clarke to hear.

            Miller just shakes his head, "This is going to end badly."

 

* * *

 

            It was an actual disaster. It was such a disaster, Clarke doesn't have the words to describe just how wrong making a simple dinner went. To be fair, it was all Bellamy's fault. Completely and utterly his fault. He put Jasper and Monty on salad duty. Together. With a sharp knife. (Clarke told him it was a bad idea, but no, he didn't listen.) She's not even sure how this all started. One moment everyone is doing their own thing: Bellamy and Clarke elbowing each other for control over the stirring (it turns out Bellamy thinks she's as bad as Octavia made her out to be, which she still thinks is a lie), Octavia mixing a bowl of batter, and the two boys taking in hushed tones as they chop vegetables; the next thing they know, Jasper flattens a tomato in Monty's hair.

            "You swore to never speak of it!" He hisses.

            Monty grabs a fistful of lettuce, " _You_ started it!" and throws it in the other boy's face.

            Jasper lunges at the boy with a noise that could only be describe as the baby of a shriek and a growl. Clarke isn't really worried about the two, until she notices that in their tumble down, they managed to smack the bowl of lettuce, sending the contents flying. Towards Octavia.

            "Oh no." Bellamy turns around just as Clarke watches in horror as the vegetable flies towards Octavia in slow motion. She sees the exact moment when the lettuce hits the girl in the back of the head and her shoulders tense up in surprise.

            Jasper and Monty, completely unaware of the mistake they just made, continue rolling around the room yelling nonsense at each other. Bellamy and Clarke look at each other, not quite sure what to do, when Octavia slowly turns around and stares at the two boys. Her face is calm, but her eyes are anything but.

            "Oh shit. They're so dead." Bellamy mutter and Clarke just nods her head in agreement. They were all screwed, probably.

            Octavia walks over, bowl in hand, and stands over the two still fighting on the floor (thankfully not rolling anymore as Jasper crawled on top of Monty). She clears her throat and they look up just in time to see the batter spill over the lip of the bowl. The liquid pours onto the two and splatters on the floor with a loud slap.

            "What the fu-" Jasper shrieks, jumping up onto his feet to stare at Octavia, " _Why_?!"

            Octavia raises an eyebrow, "Payback is a bitch."

            "We didn't do anything to you!" Monty defends, still on the floor trying to wipe away the batter from his face.

            "Yeah!" Jasper pipes in, "We were just minding our own business, not bothering anyone!"

            "Oh yeah?" She waves a hand at the pile of lettuce sitting where she was just standing, "Then explain that mess!" She picks a piece from her hair, "You had vinegar in that bowl! Do you know how hard it is to get rid of that smell?" (Admittedly not that hard, but Clarke's not going to mention that right now)

            "Wasn't us." Jasper sniffs, wiping some batter off the top of his head. He goes to flick his wrist, but instead of sending the batter to the floor, it splatters against Octavia's leggings.

            That's when shit truly hits the fan. Octavia drops the bowl and it clatters onto the floor. Everything is silent for a second, before Octavia launches at Jasper, knocking them to the floor on top of Monty. Now all three of them are rolling around in a mess of a batter and limbs.

            Clarke covers her eyes with a hand, "Can you all just stop and get off the floor? This is ridiculous."

            "Seriously. You're making a mess." Bellamy agrees.

            Much to their surprise, the trio pick themselves off the ground and steps apart. Of course, before Bellamy and Clarke can say anything more, they all run for the counter and start flinging food at each other.

            "Duck!" Bellamy yanks Clarke down just in time for a tomato to splat against the wall above the oven.

            "Thanks." Another tomato smacks into the cabinet next to their legs. Clarke turns to Bellamy and raises an eyebrow, "Abandon ship?"

            He nods his head. "Abandon ship."

            He throws an arm across her back and herds her closer to him, acting as a shield from the assorted food flying in the air. He starts for the exit when Clarke abruptly remembers something.

            "Hold up!" She darts from his arms and flicks off the flame. Bellamy gives her a quizzical look. "That way we have something for dinner."

            Bellamy cracks a smile, "My hero."  She feels her cheeks heat up, but is saved when she spots something flying in their direction.

            "Incoming!" They duck to avoid an cluster of lettuce.

            "Let's get out of here." Bellamy yanks her back and drags her out of the kitchen and into the living room where Miller and Murphy are on the couch.

            "What the hell is going on in there?" Miller asks nodding his head towards the ruckus in the next room.

            "Jasper, Octavia and Monty started a food fight and we barely escaped with our lives."  Clarke says, rolling her eyes, and turns to Bellamy "Thanks for shielding me by the way. You didn't need to do that."

            Clarke swears she can see Bellamy blush, "I was just protecting my shirt."

            "Because it's your favorite?" This time she's sure he blushes.

            " _No_. It's not my favorite…"

            "Yeah, sure." Murphy snorts from the other end of the couch, "Keep telling us that. I still have the scar from the last time I touched that thing."

            "Shut up,  Murphy." Bellamy growls.

            "Yeah, Murphy. Let the man pretend to be cool to impress the girl." Miller laughs, winking at Clarke. 

            "Miller!" Bellamy looks at his roommate with utter betrayal.

            Miller, in turn, just shrugs, "Gotta be honest, man."

            Bellamy opens his mouth to respond, when a loud crash (that mysteriously sounds like a pot hitting the floor) comes from the kitchen. Clarke sighs and walks over to the couch and plops down in the space between Miller and Murphy.

            "We're okay!" Jasper calls out.

            Clarke throws her head against the cushion, "So." Everyone turns to look at her, "What do you all want on the pizza?"

 

* * *

 

            "I can't believe we had pizza _again_." Octavia mumbles into her slice of pepperoni.

            "Yeah well, I guess you shouldn't have started a food fight and knocked over the pot on the stove, huh?" Bellamy snorts tossing one of the boxes into the trash.

            "Jasper's the one who knocked it over!"

            "She lies!" Jasper points his finger at her menacingly, "I have a witness!"

            Bellamy turns to Monty who is busy nibbling on the last inch of his crust. "Technically they both did it." He shrugs.

            "Traitor!" Jasper and Octavia huff in unison.

            "Well I hate both of you." Clarke cuts in poking at the piece of pizza still on her plate.

            "Aww, but I brought you a present!" Jasper coos.

            "Oh really now?" She pushes the plate aside, "Well then bring it on!"

            Jasper chuckles and rises from the table, "Hold up I have to go get it."

            He's halfway out the door when Monty calls out after him. "I put it by the front door."

            "Thanks!" He calls back. A few moments later, he returns with a bag in one hand and the other digging through its contents. "Hey Monty are you sure- oh wait here they are." He pulls free a large mason jar with a bright green liquid swishing around. He sets down the jar only to pull free another, this one a bright red color.

            Clarke's eyes light up as she stares at the two jars hungrily. "Christmas batch?"

            Monty and Jasper grin, "Christmas batch." They answer together.

            Bellamy and Miller groan loudly. "Not this again." Bellamy mumbles.

            Miller nods his head in agreement, "I'm not sure my liver will survive another round so close to the last."

            "Oh please," Octavia snorts, "that was weeks ago! Man up you wusses!" She turns to give Monty and Jasper a wicked grin, "I'm game."

            Clarke, Jasper, and Monty all fist bump the girl. "I knew you were my favorite Blake for a reason."

            "What the hell are those?" Murphy asks around a slice of pizza. He picks up the green jar and gives it a shake. The liquid splashes against the sides before settling once more.

            "Homebrew." Jasper states, just as Monty answers "Moonshine."

            Murphy raises an eyebrow, "Moonshine you say?"

            "More like rubbing alcohol." Bellamy sighs as he shakes his head. "Trust me, you don't want to drink that shit. You're better off with the liquor you stole from my cupboard. Your liver too."

            "You're just mad you can't handle our liquor," Clarke teases, snatching the bottle from Murphy.

            "One, that's not liquor it's poison." Bellamy points  a finger at her, but she just snorts and twists off the lid. "And two, not all of us have invincible livers."

            "It's not invincible, it's trained." She takes a whiff of the jars contents. Jasper and Monty have been trying to perfect their green flavor for years and she's curious what they tried this time. (Some of the past flavors weren't the best options. Like Christmas tree. Clarke couldn't taste anything but pine tree for a week.)

            "What's the flavor this time?" Bellamy leans over her shoulder to take a sniff. "Is that cinnamon?"

            "That's what I smelled too." Clarke takes a small sip, "Is there apple in this too?" She smacks her lips together. "Apple cinnamon?"

            Jasper snatches away the bottle and narrows his eyes in a glare at Clarke, " _Yes_ it's cinnamon apple and you know the rules, Clarke. No drinking from the bottle when we have guests."

            She waves him off, "Oh it was only a tiny sip. No one's going to get my cooties."

            Octavia claps her hands together before slamming them down on the table, pushing herself from her seat, "Enough with the chatter. What are we playing?"

            "Playing?" Murphy swipes the other jar from the table, and twist off the cap. "Why don't we just drink it?" He takes a deep breath of the liquid before shoving the jar away, "Oh my god is this paint thinner? What the fuck." He roughly sets it back down on the table and everyone laughs.

            "You can't _drink_ it per-say." Miller clarifies, "Well not unless you're them three." He hikes a thumb towards the trio huddled together talking about the newest flavor, "Us mortal folk can only handle the stuff if we're doing shots. That way you can't really taste it until it's burning down your throat."

            "That's the only way your stomach can handle the shit." Bellamy adds in.

            "And the best way to do shots it through a game." Octavia concludes, coming full circle, "So what are we playing?"

            Everyone stops and thinks. "We could play Fuck you?" Miller suggests.

            Jasper waves him off, "Nah, takes too long. How about Medusa?"

            "Too complicated." Octavia shrugs. "Battleship?"

            "We don't have the stuff to make the ships." Bellamy denies. "How about Never Have I Ever?"

            "YES!" Jasper, Monty, and Octavia all shout, while at the same time Clarke and Murphy growl, "No."

            Jasper whirls around, "Oh come on Clarke! You never want to play!!"

            "That's because you cheat." Clarke crosses her arms.

            "How can you cheat at Never Have I Ever?"

            "Wait." Miller interrupts, "What's Never Have I Ever?"

            Jasper tilts his head, "You know like 10 fingers?" Miller just stares blankly. "Guilty?"  Still nothing. "Okay, umm… Monty, you're better at explaining this."

            Monty sighs and turns to Miller. "Okay, so it goes like this." He holds up both hands, his fingers splayed wide, "So Never Have I ever is a game where you hold up 10 fingers," he wiggles said fingers for effect, "And each person goes around in a circle making a general statement starting with 'Never have I ever.' For example: Never have I ever taken Biology. If that statement is _true_ for you, you keep your fingers up. If that statement is false, so in this case you've taken a biology class, you put a finger down." He demonstrates by lowering his left pinky. "The first person to put down all 10 fingers loses."

            "And exactly how is this going to get us drunk?" Murphy asks.

            Jasper rolls his eyes, "Well obviously instead of 10 fingers we'd have 10 shot glasses. Every time the statement isn't true, you take a shot."

            "I still vote no. This is just an excuse for these four assholes to gang up on me." Murphy nods his head towards the Blakes and Miller.

            Monty laughs, "Oh you might just be surprised."

            "Okay I have a better question," Octavia drums her fingers on the table, "Do we even have enough shot glasses for this? I mean there's like 7 people that’s what? 70 shot glasses?"

            Jasper breaks out in a grin, "Oh that's not a problem!" He reaches in the bag once more and pulls out a bag full of clear shot glasses. "Picked this up before we left."

            Clarke sighs, "I don't really have a choice do I?"

            "Nope." Murphy sighs right alongside her. "At least we get booze?"

            Clarke crinkles her nose, "I feel weird saying this, but you're right. At least we get booze."

 

* * *

 

            Everyone had congregated back to the living room and were sprawled about the room, Jasper and Miller on the couch, Monty rested between each of their knees, Octavia and Clarke on the arm chair (Of course Clarke perched on the arm rest because Octavia is a hog), Bellamy and Murphy sitting on the floor at the ends of the coffee table. Each had a row of 11 shot glasses sitting in front of them.

            "Okay, you know the drill everyone-" Jasper starts

            "Not everyone." Murphy quips and Jasper huffs in exasperation.

            "Take a shot." Everyone picks a glass and raises it to their lips.

            "Bottoms up!" Clarke grins at Monty. The boy returns her smile and they slam back the shot. The rest follow suit, downing each of their glasses.

            "Oh god that's vile!" Murphy coughs.

            "It gets better after the 3rd shot." Miller offers.

            "Speak for yourself." Octavia sticks out her tongue as if to air off the taste.

            "Okay let's get this shit started." Bellamy cuts in, "The quicker we finish, the quicker I can drink something that actually tastes like liquor."

            "Hey!" Jasper and Monty yell, "Don't insult our baby!"

            Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Okay so who's going first?"

            Clarke shrugs, "I'll go." He waves her forward. "Let's see… hm." She taps her chin in thought, "Okay I've got one. Never have I ever been caught cheating."

            Octavia raises an eyebrow, "Like on a test or a person?" Clarke cringes.

            "Let's say a test." She shrugs, trying to play it off (She thinks Bellamy and the other's noticed anyways), "I'm going to assume you're all not assholes." She looks at Murphy, "Well not complete assholes."

            "Love you too, Princess." Murphy sneers and picks up a shot. "Cheers." He's followed by Octavia, Jasper, Monty and finally Bellamy.

            Miller snorts, "Losers."

            Clarke laughs, "I know right? Who's dumb enough to get caught?" They fist bump.

            "Bite me." Jasper sticks out his tongue. "Who's going next?"

            "I'll go." Murphy sets down his glass bottom-side up. He eyes Clarke." Never have I ever slept with a guy."

            Clarke huffs and downs her shot. She slams it down and give Murphy a smirk, "What jealous it wasn't you?"

            "Careful there, Blondie." He grins, all teeth.

            "Watch it, Murphy." Bellamy growls.

            "She started it."

            "Back to the game people!" Jasper commands, slamming back a shot of his own. Monty and Miller follow. Everyone just stares for a second. Jasper looks around confused. "What? I experimented." He shrugs.

            "And?" Octavia prompts.

            "Monty is a lovely guy, but we work better as friends." He nudges his friends shoulder with his knee.

            "Thanks, Jasper." Monty rolls his eyes.

            "Okay… Moving on." Bellamy clears his throat, "Never have I ever gotten in a bar fight." He throws a pointed glare at Murphy when the boy opens his mouth and adds, "More than once."

            Murphy glares and raises the glass to Bellamy, "Touché." Before he can take a shot, there is a clink of another glass hitting a surface. They both looks up to see Clarke wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

            "What?" She quirks an eyebrow.

            Monty and Jasper snicker, "I told you this was going to be interesting."

            "Is anyone going to call out Bellamy on the technicality?" Clarke changes the topic, "I feel like that should be cheating."

            "You're just mad you've already down two shots."

            "Hardly." Clarke looks around the circle, "Okay, who's going next?"

            "Oh! I've got one." Everyone turns to look at Octavia. "Never have I ever stolen a car."

            "Been caught or just stolen?" Murphy asks.

            "I feel like this shouldn't need further definition, but let's just say stolen caught or not."

            Murphy and Miller down a shot. Clarke groans and picks up a third cup and shoots it back. Once again everyone stares. "Oh come on! I went through a phase okay? It happens!" She defends, crossing her arms.

            Miller laughs, "Damn Clarke. I didn't know you were such a bad ass."

            "Clarke is such a bad ass. Like, you seriously need to hear the story of _whose_ car she stole! You won't beli-"

            "Jasper." Clarke warns and the boy shuts up.

            "On that note," Miller continues, "Never have I ever made it past the 1st year of college." He throws Octavia an apologetic smile as she takes her first shot. "Sorry little Blake. You needed to join the party."

            Octavia rolls her eyes, "Thanks Miller. I _really_ appreciate it."

            "I never went to college." Murphy shrugs, "Does that mean I'm exempted?"

            "No." Everyone answers simultaneously.

            "Assholes." He shoots one back. "Fine. Never have I ever been to college." Everyone groans and takes a shot. "That's what you get."

            "Fair is fair. Okay, my turn." Jasper smiles, "Never have I ever had an excessive amount of one night stands."

            Murphy takes a shot.

            "Define excessive." Bellamy asks, glass in hand.

            "I feel like if I have to answer that, you need to drink." Jasper laughs. Bellamy concedes with a shrug and downs it.

            "Never have I ever slept with a woman." Monty chips in, clearly taking advantage of the situation. Bellamy, Murphy, and Jasper take a shot.  Clarke raises a glass in the air.

            "Before anyone can even ask," Clarke interjects, "Yes I slept with a woman. No it wasn't an experiment. I'm very bi thank you very much."

            "You know, Princess. " Murphy smiles, "I'm liking you more and more." He reaches his empty glass to hers.

            "That's because I'm awesome." She clinks together their cups and downs hers. Her head is beginning to feel a little fuzzy. How many shots had she had at this point? 4? She tries to shake away the fuzziness. "Okay I've got a good one." She looks between Murphy and Bellamy. "Never have I ever tried to hang someone."

            Bellamy glares at her, "Low blow, Clarke." He takes a shot.

            "And I just paid you a compliment." Murphy sighs, downing one of his own.

            "All is fair in love and war." She shrugs.

            "Are you saying you love me?" Murphy winks.

            "Oh I adore you." Clarke deadpans.

            "Well if we're taking cheap shots, no pun intended," Bellamy interrupts (Clarke beginning to think these puns are _so_ intended.), "Never have I ever enrolled as a science major." He gives Clarke a wicked grin. "Drink up."

            "I hope you know, you burned us as well in your little revenge." Jasper points out before slamming back a shot. Monty nods his head in agreement and downs his own.

            Clarke tilts her head at Bellamy. "Okay, Bell. We can play like that." He smirks and she swallows her shot, her eyes never leaving his.

            "Does Poly-Sci count?" Octavia pipes up.

            "I mean…" Clarke trails off and looks at Monty and Jasper, who shrug.

            "It has science in the name?" Monty offers

            "I'll take it!" Octavia downs the shot.

            "You just wanted to drink." Miller rolls his eyes.

            "Damn straight!"

            "Okay, okay. No more cheap shots." Clarke jumps in, throwing a glare at Bellamy. "Someone go!"

            "One more." Octavia grins, "Never have I ever blown up a lab."

            Clarke glares at Jasper, "I blame you." She slams back yet another shot.

            "Ditto." Monty drinks his.

            Jasper just shrugs, "I regret nothing," and downs one of his own.

            "Do I want to know?" Bellamy asks with a grin on  his face.

            "I do." Murphy mumbles, his words starting to blend together.

            "N- now no more cheap shots." Clarke demands slamming the cup down.

            "Fine. I have one." Miller chimes in, "Never have I ever been arrested." Clarke glares at Miller as she raises a glass menacingly. "What?! How was I supposed to know?"

            "I stole a freaking car! I think it was safe to assume I've been arrested!"

            "What happened to getting caught was for losers?" Murphy grins sloppily, scooting over to lean against Clarke's legs.

            She nudges him off, "Never said I got caught doing that. What about you?"

            His grin widens, "Oh I so got caught." Clarke can't help it; she bursts out laughing, shaking so much she has to balance an arm on Murphy to keep from falling over. Her head was definitely spinning now, but she's not sure she cares anymore. From the looks of it, Murphy wasn't much better off.

            "You're alright Murphy." They clink glasses and down their shots together.

            "What are you two at?" Bellamy asks, looking at the two of them as if they each have two heads.

            "6? No wait… 7!" Clarke answers. "Or was it 8?" She pauses, "Are we talking about shots or level of intoxication? Because I'm going to need a scale for the latter." Bellamy rolls his eyes.

            Murphy laughs loudly throwing his head back against the arm rest. "I'm definitely at 8. For both." Clarke laughs alongside him.

            "Maybe we should cut them off." Miller suggests and Bellamy nods.

            "NO!" Jasper yells, flailing his arms about, "The games not ever over yet! I'm sure they can survive a few more rounds."

            "Yeah, Bell. We can hang a few more rounds, right Murphy?" Clarke straightens out, fighting off the sluggishness.

            "See?" Jasper smiles, "You heard it hear folks. The game is still on!" Octavia, Murphy and Clarke cheer. "Okay," he licks his lips, "Never have I ever spent a week in jail!"

            "Jasper!" Clarke groans.

            "What? You only spent like 7 days in jail. You're fine."

            "7 days _is_ a week dumbass!" Clarke growls.

            "Come on Princess Bad Ass, take another shot with me." Murphy laughs raising his glass to hers once more.

            Clarke sighs, "This is why I didn't want to play." They clink and drink.

            "I for one, and thoroughly glad we played." He winks at Clarke, "How else would I have found out that Princess is actually Princess Bad Ass?"

            "I punched you in the nose?"

            "Yeah but now I know you probably learned that move in jail." He smirks, "Which is so much hotter."

            Clarke shoves his head, "Shut up, Murphy."

            "Make me." She shoves his head harder this time. "Okay okay. I've got one. Never have I ever gotten a tattoo."  
            Miller, Monty and Jasper all laugh and take a shot. Clarke just stares at her remaining glass. She sighs and picks it up. "Well I guess I lose." She slams back the final shot. The liquid pours down her throat, the burn long gone by now, and fills her body with a warm sensation that races up and down her arms. "Okay, Miller I know what Monty and Jasper have, but I don't think I've seen yours."

            "I don't know what Jasper and Monty have." Octavia shrugs.

            Jasper grins at Monty and the boy shrugs. They pull up their sleeves to bare their wrist to the girl. "We got these back in high school." Jasper adds in. Octavia leans in to see C2H6O written on Jasper's right wrist and Monty's left.

            "What does it mean?"

            Clarke snorts scrambling off the chair to sit on the floor. "It's the empirical formula for Ethanol, the main ingredient for Moonshine." The boys just grin.

            "Wow." Bellamy shakes his head, "Way to promote your criminal activity boys."

            Jasper laughs, "Like people are smart enough to know it off the tops of their heads."

            Bellamy thinks for a moment. "You've got a point."

            "We usually do." Monty shrugs taking another shot.

            "Don't think I've forgotten about you, Miller." Clarke points an accusing finger, "What's your ink?"

            Miller chuckles and starts to slide his right arm out of the hoodie he's wearing. Letting the material bunch up under his neck, he lifts the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a black and white piece of a lotus flower sitting on top of a geometrical shape made up of triangles, the entire thing done in dot work.  

            "I got it for my mother." He says softly. "She loved lotus flowers."

            Clarke looks him in the eye, "It's beautiful." Miller smiles and slips back into his hoodie.

            "That's great and all buddy, seriously I remember when Echo did that for you-good work- but I really need to see your ink, Princess. " Murphy cuts in ruining the moment. "It's a prison tat isn't it? Oh I bet it's so a prison tat." He grins. "Please tell me you went Orange is the New Black with that shit."

            Clarke laughs, "What? No!"

            Murphy deflates, "It's not some basic white bitch tattoo is it? Because I'd have to say, I expected more from you after tonight."

            "Octavia." Bellamy asks slowly, his voice dangerously low and close to a growl. "Why is one of your shots missing?" Everyone stops and tilts their heads at the two siblings.

            "What are you talking about?" Octavia asks innocently.

            "Do you have a fucking tattoo? You better not have a fucking tattoo, so help me-" Bellamy growls.

            "Calm down, B! First of all it's _my_ body!"

            "You're 18 years old, O. Do you know the kind of commitment that is?!"

            "I'm not stupid, B." She crosses her arms and glares at her older brother, "I know what getting a tattoo means!"

            "Octavia-" He starts, but she cuts him off.

            "I don't have a tattoo, B! I just took a shot because the game is _over_ and I barely got to touch the stuff." She huffs, "But it's so nice to know that if I ever _did_ get one, you'd have a cow."

            Bellamy sighs and runs a hand through his hair, "I just don't want you to jump into anything and regret it later."

            "I can make my own decisions."

            "I know. That's the scary part." He gives her a sad smile.

            "Urgh! Enough with the sap!" Murphy groans. "Now that we've established that O does in fact _not_ have a tattoo, but just enjoys a shitty drink," He ignore the indignant "Hey" from Jasper and Monty. "Can we get back to Princess and her basic bitch tattoo?"

            "Like you have any room to talk about enjoying a shitty drink." Bellamy glares, "Don't think I didn't see you refill your glass a few times."

            "Bite me, Blake."

            "Shut it, Murphy."

            As they bicker back and forth, Clarke scrambled up the side of the armchair and leans to whisper into Octavia's ear. "So where is it?"

            Octavia gets a gleam in her eye and a smile that screams she just got away with something. "Don't know what you're talking about." She winks and drums her fingers on her right thigh.

            Clarke laughs, "Sure you don't."

            Octavia glances over at Bellamy, making sure he's still too wrapped up in the argument to overhear. "It's for Bellamy."

            Clarke nods her understanding. "You'll have to show me sometime." The girl beams at her.

            "Definitely!"

            "Clarke~!" Jasper moans, "Will you please just tell him what your tattoo is so we can move on? We still have like half a jar each left."

            Clarke rolls her eyes and pushes herself off the arm of the couch (and if it takes her a couple of tries, no one needs to notice). She walks over to stand in front of the fireplace and puts her hands on her hips. "You really want to know?"

            Murphy rolls his eyes, "No, I've just been asking for the fuck of it. Show me your basic prison tat, Princess."

            Clarke laughs, "It's not a prison tattoo! Nor is it a 'basic' tattoo."

            "I'm not convinced. I'm going to need proof."

            "Well if you insist." Clarke shrugs and grabs the ends of her t-shirt and begins to tug  it up. She makes it up to the middle of her stomach, when a pair of firm hands grabs the fabric and forces it back down.

            "Okay, I think that's far enough, Clarke." Bellamy says sternly. "Maybe we should get you some water."

            "I'm fine, Bell." She tugs away and stumbles on her own two feet.

            Bellamy smirks, "Clearly."

            "God damn it Blake!" Murphy growls, "She was just about to show me!"

            "Fuck off, Murphy." Bellamy rolls his eyes.

            "I know you're fucking the girl, but seriously! I want to see the tattoo!"

            "Watch it." Bellamy warns. "We're not _fucking_ nor are you going to see that tattoo when she's clearly drunk and not thinking clearly."

            "She was thinking clearly enough to lift up her shirt." He sneers and Bellamy growls. "Fine, whatever." He points a finger at Clarke, "I want to see that prison tat in the morning when you're sober." He glares at Bellamy, "There, happy?"

            "You're kind of an asshole when you're drunk." Jasper notes.

            "Murphy's an asshole _all_ the time." Octavia laughs, taking another shot.

            "Thanks, O. Feel the fucking love." Murphy grumbles and swipes one of her shots.

            "I have no love for you."

            "Love you too."

            "He's also really snarky." Monty observes.

            "That I noticed." Jasper clinks a glass with Monty and they both drink.

            "Oh-kay!" Miller calls out clapping his hands together loudly. "How about we watch a movie?"

            Bellamy and Murphy glare at each other, while the rest murmur their agreement. Clarke on the other hand shakes her head. "I think I'm going to tune out." She can feel her stomach starting to do flips, "I think the cinnamon apple needs some more work. Or maybe I shouldn't do 10 shots so close together." She goes to take a step toward the stairs when the room spins and she loses her footing.

            Lucky for her, Bellamy is right there to catch her. "Whoa there." He straightens her up, "Here let me help you."

            "Yeah, that might be a good idea." Clarke mumbles, letting Bellamy take some of her weight. "I hate that stupid game. Never win."

            Bellamy laughs," I can see why." He helps her up the stairs, going up each step slow to make sure she's got her footing before moving on to the next. It takes way too long, but she's glad when they reach the top of the stairs and her stomach hasn't emptied itself on the floor. When they reach her room, he carefully opens the door and leads her in.

            She plops down on the bed and let herself sink into the mattress. "Oh this feels so much better."

            "Better than a prison cot?" Bellamy jokes.

            "Hey!" She points a finger to the ceiling, "It was jail not prison."

            "Oh excuse me." He leans over her with the biggest shit eating grin, "I'm sure jail is _so_ much better." They laugh. "I didn't know you were such a wild child, Clarke."

            "Like I said. I went through a phase. I didn't make the smartest choices for myself."

            "Clearly." She swats at his arm. He's silent for a moment before his eyes soften.  
"Was it because of your dad?"

            Clarke nods, "Yeah that was a part of it." She sticks a hand out and he helps her up. "The rest was just everything going on in my family. If it wasn’t' for Wells…" She sighs. It still hurts to say his name. "I don't know what would have happened."

            "You would have pulled through eventually."

            She laughs. "How can you be so sure? You didn't exactly know me back then. It wasn't the super fun Clarke you know and love. I was bitter and angry at the world. "

            "I know because you're strong." He shrugs, "And because I could." His eyes find hers, "We're cut from the same cloth, remember? If I could do it, you sure as hell could."

            "Thanks." Silence falls over them once again.

            "Hey?" She asks after a while.

            "Hmm?"

            "Want to see my tattoo?"

            "That depends." He grins, "Are you going to flash me?"

            "Ha ha." She rolls her eyes, "It's on my ribs. I'll even keep the shirt over my bra to protect your virgin eyes."

            "Please." He snorts.

            "Do you want to see it or not?"

            "Yeah."

            Clarke lifts up her shirt (technically his shirt, but she's thinking of stealing the thing. It's really soft, okay? That's the only reason) to reveal the piece that stretches from just below the band of her bra until the middle of  her stomach. She twist so he can see it.

            "It's the Caduceus symbol. " She explains. He leans in to get a better look, his hand slowly raising to trace the skin. He catches himself in the last moment.

            He meets her eyes again, "Can I?" He asks. She swallows, wanting to feel the heat of his hands more than she's willing to admit to herself (even her drunk self) and nods her approval.

            His fingers skim over the lines of the wings, swooping down to follow the twist of the serpents entwined around the rod and each other. Her heart faces at each brush of his calloused fingers against the smooth lines. She starts talking to keep her mind off of how it makes her feel. "I added in the banners because I thought they'd fit the piece nicely." His thumb brushes over the top banner, making her shiver. " _Primum non nocere_. It means-"

            "First, do no harm." He breathes, eyes flickering back up to hers. "It's Latin."

            "Yeah." She ignores the flips in her stomach, this time not from the alcohol.

            His finger traces over the letters. She closes her eyes and maps out the tattoo in her mind as his hand traces each line. She can see the banner at the top with the word Primum written in all caps, followed by the tip of the caduceus and the outspread wings. She can see the twin serpents  wrapped around the rod that resembles more of a sword than the traditional scepter. His fingers trace over each of the banners that rest on either side of the piece. She feels him skim over the olive branch, then the dagger. She feels his fingers freeze at the bottom of the piece, knowing exactly what laid at the end: her father's signature. Her tribute to the man she loved and lost.

            "It's okay." She opens her eyes, "You can touch it." He hesitates before his fingers slowly follow the slanted curves of her father's name. J.A.K.E. G.R.I.F.F.I.N. The cursive letters forever burned in her mind and on her skin forever. Feeling Bellamy trace the letters should have felt invasive - wrong- but instead, it only sent shockwaves in the wake of his fingers. "I want to get one for Wells too, I just don't know what yet. I've come up with some designs in my sketch book, but nothing really felt right."

            Bellamy slowly lowers the shirt back down. "It's beautiful." He whispers.

            "Thank you." She yawns, propping herself against the pillows and the headrest. "Hey, why don't you have a tattoo? You strike me as the type."

            He shrugs, "Never could come up with a design I liked enough."

            She yawns again, her eyelids getting heavy. "I could help with that." Another yawn, "Could come up with some designs together."

            Bellamy chuckles and pulls out the blankets from under her and swings her feet onto the bed. "I'd like that."

            Her eyes get heavier and she closes them out of sheer exhaustion. "I think you'd looks really good with something on your forearm." She mumbles. "You have really nice forearms."

            He chuckles but it's really far away now. "Get some sleep, Clarke." She can feel the warmth of the blankets as they wrap around her.

            "Night, Bell."

            "Night, Clarke."

            The last thing she feels in a slight pressure on her forehead before the darkness pulls her under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did you guys like it? I had soo much fun writing that game and everyone's reactions to Clarke and Murphy. Also if you want to see what Miller and Clarke's tattoos look like, I've posted them [here](http://awfullybashful.tumblr.com/post/132717491166/clarke-millers-tattoos) on my tumblr!
> 
> Want updates on how the next chapter is going or just want to scream at me? Come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://awfullybashful.tumblr.com/ask) I'm nearly always on (and get updates on my phone). We can scream about Bellarke, the hiatus or just about life in general!
> 
> As always thank you all so much for the kudos and comments!!


	10. Five Minute to Midnight Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wakes up in a post drunken haze and somebody's in her bed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay four things.  
> 1\. I'M SO SORRY THIS CHAPTER IS SO LATE!!! First there was finals then there was Christmas, then Jan term has been torture and half with this stupid boring ass Class I'm taking and literally all time and inspiration for writing kind of just took a vacation, and for that I'm sorry.  
> 2\. This chapter has some funky spacing and indent issue and that's because Google docs literally hates me and won't let me have my indents.  
> 3\. Yes this chapter has been split into two parts (with the same title b/c I literally cannot be bother to find another song that fits in with this theme I'm going for) because all of you lovely people deserve an update and because it kind of works out in my favor :) 
> 
> 4\. There are 6 more chapter (as long as nothing else goes wrong...) left. I've sat down a worked out the logistics of the remaining story left and figured out how it's going to go and split. So we're almost there guys!
> 
> Anywho enjoy the chapter and I'll see you at the end!
> 
> As always a huge thanks to my Beta for looking over this chapter and dealing with my nervous jitters! You're the best <3

                The next time Clarke opens her eyes, the night sky has bled away into dawn and a strip of light races across the blankets. The room is cool, but the blankets are warm across her back and stomach. With a groan, she flips over to her other side and buries her face deeper into the pillow. There is a throbbing between her eyes and she's regretting ever meeting Jasper and Monty. (Not really, but Jasper isn't winning any points right now.) She's trying to stick the pieces of last night together (it starts with deciding to drink on an empty stomach and gets fuzzy around Murphy nagging about her tattoo) when the source of her heat moves. Her eyes snap open. Blankets don't move (at least on their own) and certainly don't make a dip in the bed when they do so. She might not be super clear on the details of last night but she's damn sure she didn't go to bed with anyone. Flashes of Bellamy's fingers tracing her ribcage and the earthy color of his eyes flicker at the back of her mind. Oh god. Please tell me I didn't sleep with Bellamy, she panics, Octavia would never let me live it down and Jasper- The body shuffles around some more, before tightening their grasp around her abdomen and dragging her towards their chest.

                Oh god she slept with Bellamy. Who else cuddles like their life depends on it? Well Jasper, but the chest is all wrong (Not that she's an expert on Bellamy's chest or anything…. She may have drawn it a couple of time, but that was all in the name of art…. Shut up.) She dares to peek open an eye, hoping that if she just looks, it will all turn out to be a dream brought on from the alcohol that must still be in her system. The hair she sees poking from underneath the blankets is not Bellamy's but-

                Apparently, Clarke must have been scooting back off the bed because the next thing she knows the mattress disappears beneath her fingers and she tumbles to the floor in an undignified mess of sheets. (On the plus side, it turns out she's not naked.) She lets out an involuntary squeak, which wakes her partner. The head of said partner pokes out over the edge of the bed just as Clarke manages to shove the sheet off her face.

                "Murphy!" She glares at him like it's his fault she fell. Which it is.

                Murphy groans, "Keep it down will you? Some of us have a hangover." He buries his head back under the blankets.

                "You think you're the only one?" She pinches the bridge of her nose to calm down the wave of nausea from the fall. Murphy grunts in response. "What are you even doing here?" She waits, but there is only a soft snore coming from the blankets. "Murphy!" She kicks the bed.

                "What!" He rips the covers away and glares at her.

                "Why are you in my bed?"

                He groans and rest his head back down on the bed. This time he leaves it above the comforter. "Because Miller gave my bed to that boyfriend of his," he pauses and scrunches his nose, "Minty?.... Money?"

                "Monty." She fills in.

                "Right, Monty. And the other one-"

                "Jasper."

                "Yeah, he crashed on the couch and Miller took the last room. So," he attempts to shrug his shoulders but it looks more like a twitch. "I took the first available place."

                "Oh and my room was available?" She gives him an incredulous look, "With me in the bed?"

                "Where else could I have gone? The upstairs couch sucks and I'm not about to crawl in with Bellamy. He'd kill me if I even thought about shacking it up with Octavia- even if she's like a sister to me and just no. So," he pats the bed, "here I am. Besides, you're not my sister." He gives her a sleepy grin.

                Clarke glares at him when the door flies open and Bellamy storms in barefoot, hair messy, and dressed in a rumpled tee and pajama bottoms that look like they were thrown on in a hurry. "Hey Clarke are you okay? I thought I heard a scream." He tilts his head when he spots her on the floor.

                "Oh my god! I did not scream." Clarke throws her hands up in the air.

                "You kind of did, Princess." Murphy snorts.

                Bellamy's eyes snap to the pile of blankets hiding Murphy's form. His body stiffens into a taut line. "What the fuck are you doing in here?" His voice rises with each passing word before ending just short of a shout. Clarke and Murphy wince at the volume.

                "Too loud." Clarke groans, cradling her head on her knees.

                "Seriously, Blake. Some of us were victims last night."

                "Victim my ass," Bellamy snarls, but his volume is lower. His jaw remains tight with restrain anger. "I'll ask you one more time, Murphy. What are you doing in here?"

                Clarke holds up her hand to stop him and tries- and fails- to pick herself off the floor. "He just wandered in here drunk looking for a place to crash." Finally Bellamy takes pity on her and helps her up, "Nothing happened. I didn't even know he was here until I woke up for some ungodly reason." She yawns. "No harm, no foul."

                "Yeah Blake. Nothing happened. Her virtue is intact." Clarke snorts, "Now leave me alone." He buries his head back under, obviously done with the conversation.

                "Why you son of a bitch-" Bellamy takes a step forward, but Clarke stops him with a hand on his chest.

                "Oh just leave him, Bell." She yawns again, her eyelids growing heavier, "He's harmless." She shrugs lazily, "I'll just go crawl in with Octavia."

                Bellamy chuckles and grabs her elbow to keep her balance (because apparently her legs decided they had enough of standing), "That might be a problem."

                "And why's that?"

                "O sleeps with the door locked."

                This time Clarke chuckles, "She would."

                "That doesn't sound like leaving." Murphy calls out from under the mound.

                Bellamy throws a glare in his direction and gently guides Clarke to the door. "Cover your ears." He whispers to Clarke, and she obeys. He ushers them both out and slams it shut behind them. They hear a muffled groan and they laugh. Clarke's is cut short by another yawn.

                Bellamy smiles, "Okay sleepy head, let's get you back to bed." he takes a hold of her shoulder and gently turns her around so her back is parallel with his chest.

                "But Octavia's door is locked." He hums in response. "Do you have a key?" He hums again, but doesn't offer an answer.

                He guides her down the hall and past the landing (which Jasper was actually sleeping on the couch downstairs, so at least Murphy was telling the truth about that) and down the other hall until they stood between the Blake siblings’ bedrooms.

                “So key?” Clarke asks, looking up at Bellamy, “Or are you just going to pick it?”

                He raises an eyebrow, “No. Unlike you, I’m not some criminal.”

                “Ouch, low blow, Bell.”

                He smirks and spins them around so they are facing his room with the door wide open. “You’re going to take my bed and go back to sleep.”  He gently pushes her into the room and guides her to the bed.

“What about you?” She settles herself onto the mattress, “I don’t want to steal your bed, and I’m not going to let you sleep on that couch.” (Her back still has that odd kink.)

Bellamy shrugs and scratches behind his neck, “Don’t worry about it.” He yawns, “I’m probably not going to go back to bed anyhow. Maybe I’ll just go make breakfast or something.”

“Breakfast?” Clarke tilts her head to peer out the only window of the room. “Bellamy it’s still pitch black out. No one is going to be up for another couple of hours at least.”

“I can do prep work.”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” Clarke shakes her head, “What time is it?” He mumbles something she doesn’t quite get. “Hmm?”

He sighs exasperatedly “5:00.”

                Clarke groans, “No.” She grabs his wrist and pulls him towards the bed, “No living person should be conscious at this hour.” She gives another good yank when Bellamy finally stops resisting and lets himself be pulled to the edge of the mattress. “We are going back to sleep.”

                She lifts up the sheets and scoots close to the wall. After letting go of his hand, she pats the spot she just vacated, “Come on now. Sleep is good I promise.”

                Bellamy chuckles and gives in, climbing into bed next to her. “You’re ridiculous.”

                “Says the man who wanted to be awake at 5 in the morning.”

                “Touche.”

                The bed is instantly warmer after she throws the sheets over them, and Clarke can’t help but cuddle further into the blankets. “You can even cuddle me and I won’t get mad.” She yawns.

                “I don’t cuddle.”

                “Yeah right.” She pauses. “You know, Murphy is awfully cuddly too...” Bellamy tenses beside her. “Oh my god. You two totally used to be cuddle buddies, didn’t you?”

                “No.”

                “Liar.” She laughs.

                “Go to sleep.”

                “Fine, fine.” She yawns, shifting her weight so she is facing the wall on her side. “Just don’t squeeze the life out of me.”

                “I don’t cuddle.”

                “Night, Bell.”

                He sighs, but she can feel the smile in it. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

                The room grows darker and the heat envelops them both like a blanket and Clarke lets herself be lulled to sleep. She lets out a soft hum of satisfaction and sleep claims her once more. When she opened her eyes next, a strong arm is wrapped around her middle, her back flat against a chest, and a familiar mop of curls tickling the side of her cheek. She smiles fondly (and if she allows herself to nestle a little closer, than no one has to know) and drifts off into sleep for the last time.

               

* * *

 

 

This time when Clarke opens her eyes, the room is brighter and the bed considerably colder. The pounding in her head is still there, but it’s calmed down to a low hum. She stretches an arm over to the other side of the bed to confirm what she already knew: Bellamy is gone. With a sigh, she turns over and buries her face into the pillow. A wave of Bellamy’s scent floods her nose and she inhale. Cinnamon with a mixture of pine, books, and rain. For the longest time, his scent used to confuse her, but after coming here it all made sense. He smelled like the trees that surrounded the cabin and the morning dew that coated the leaves as the sun begins its ascent of the day. He smelled like the cinnamon he bakes into breakfast and Octavia bakes into nearly all of her desserts. He smelled like the books he had lining his walls. He smelled like home.

                She rolls back over and stares at the ceiling. But not her home. Her home smelled like dust (which was bizarre because the place was so spotless) and the faint scent of antiseptic that clung to her mother’s clothes from work. Once the smell of grease and motor oil used to linger in the halls, but that was quickly scrubbed away with the rest of the reminders of her father. No trees. No rain. No cinnamon or books. This wasn’t her home, not with the smells of nature and Octavia faint scent of the fresh air and the earth. Clarke feels her heart tighten in her chest and she absently brings her hand to rest over the spot. She thought of a place where the scent of antiseptic (that was bound to stick her own clothes as they had her mother’s) would blend in with cinnamon and earth and the chemicals Jasper and Monty were always dabbling with. Her fingers bunch the material of her shirt. This wasn’t her home, but she wishes it was.

                She shakes her head. Laying in Bellamy Blake’s bed was not the place to have a post drunken haze crisis. No deep inner revelations about her mess of a life until after she can have a shower. She tosses off the blankets and swings her legs over the side of the bed.

                “Okay, Clarke.” She mumbles to herself, “Time to get your life together, or at least take a shower so you don’t smell like the bottom of a bottle.”

                After a quick glance around the room (There is actually light coming through the window this time), she pushes herself away from the bed and marches to the door. She cracks it open, peeking her head out into the hall to make sure the coast is clear (because it might be hard to argue that she isn’t sleeping with Bellamy if she’s seen slipping out of his bedroom in the morning). Luckily, Octavia’s door is open and her room empty. She opens the door wide enough to slip out and make her way back to her own room.

                She closes the door with a soft click and leans to rest her back against the wood. Allowing herself one deep breath, she opens her eyes to deal with the lump of blankets still laying in her bed.

                “Murphy.” She walks over to the bed and pokes at the pike. “Murphy get up.”

                The lump groans, “No.”

                Clarke pokes harder, “Come on Murphy, get up. I need to shower and get dressed.”

                “Sounds like a you problem.”

                Clarke raises an eyebrow and rips off the blankets leaving Murphy (curled in a ball) exposed to the cool morning air. He groans and opens his eyes into a glare.

                “You’re a bitch.”

                “A bitch whose bed you’re in. Now get out.”

                “Make me.” he rolls over onto his other side.

                “Oh my god are you always such a baby in the morning? Get up!”

                “No.”

                Clarke shakes the bed, but Murphy remains where he is. She could open the curtains and let the light chase him off (or at least make him move), but it wouldn’t do her own hangover any favors either. She folds her arms across her chest and stares at Murphy, trying to come up with some sort of a plan. In the silence, she hears some commotion coming from the kitchen down stairs and  an idea comes to mind.

                “You know,” she drawls, “Not only do Jasper and Monty make a mean moonshine, they’ve got the best hangover cure.” She sits down next to him and pokes his shoulder, “I bet Monty is already up and mixing a batch together.”

                Murphy looks over his shoulder, “Why should I believe you?”

                “Because I plan to have a big cup of it when I get dressed. Now leave!”

                He rolls over and sits up, “Show me your tattoo first.”

                “Are you still on that?” She groans.

                “I’ve got twenty bucks on the line here, Princess.”

                “Call me that one more time and I’ll make you lose on principle.”

                “You wouldn’t.”

                She smirks, “You’re right, I wouldn’t because you’re already going to lose.” She hikes up her shirt a little to reveal the tattoo. “As you can see, no ‘basic bitch’ tattoo here.”

                Murphy groans, “I hate you.”

                She shrugs, “Should have listen to me.” She shoves his shoulder, “Now get out of here.”

                Murphy takes a pillow and smacks Clarke upside the head. “You suck.”

                “Leave!”

                “I’m going, I’m going!” He kicks away the last of the blankets at his feet and (finally) gets out of the bed and walks to the door. He’s about to leave when he stops and looks back at Clarke. “You know, I could always join you for that shower.”

                His answer is met with a pillow thrown in his direction, which he has to close the door the dodge. As soon as the lock clicks in place, Clarke falls against her bed and stares at the canvas ceiling. Flashes of freckles and home race through her mind and she sighs. What am I doing?

 

* * *

 

 

She’s tugging on her last boot when she catches glimpse of herself in the mirror. Gone is her lazy yet comfortable outfit of yesterday, and instead she’s dressed in yet another  knit sweater dress (she might have to steal a couple more shirts from Bellamy until she can do some laundry around here) the pair of thick leggings she wore yesterday (They were still clean after everything), a circle scarf, and her over the knee boots. She looked dolled up to someone’s standards, but it is the literal last outfit she has. She takes a moment and adjusts the scar a bit, before nodding her approval at the reflection and heading downstairs, which had only grown louder since she kicked Murphy out from her bed.

By the time she makes it to the kitchen, Miller and Monty are already sitting at the island nursing coffee mugs, while murmuring softly to each other. Octavia is at her usual spot on the counter next to the stove where Bellamy is no doubt making breakfast (Eggs and bacon if Clarke’s nose isn’t lying to her). Odd enough, Jasper is no where in the vicinity, but chances are he’s probably taking a shower. The real prize, however, is the half full coffee pot sitting on the counter just a little ways away. She makes a beeline towards, only to run into Murphy as he steps in her path.

“You lied.” He accuses.

“I did no such thing.” She tries to step around him, but he follows.

“You said they’d make a hangover brew.”

“And I’m sure they are.” She puts her hands on her hips, “Aren’t you Monty?”

“Wha-” Monty looks up, “Oh, yeah. Jasper went to the store to grab the final component. Apparently the Blakes don’t have any Worcestershire sauce.”

“I’m not drinking anything that contains that shit.” Bellamy calls from the stove, “Not matter how good it works.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, “Baby!” She turns back to Murphy, “See I didn’t lie. Now move.”

Murphy remains where he is. “Nope.” He takes a drink of his own mug, “I think I’m fine where I am.”

Clarke narrows her eyes at him, before snagging the mug out of his hand and skidding away when he tries to grab it back.

“If you want to be like that fine. I’ll just drink yours then.” She takes one sip of the drink before spitting it back out when it burned her throat. “Oh my god!” she sputters, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, “Did you spike it?!”

Murphy shrugs and takes the mug back, “Best hangover cure is a cup of the same shit that caused it.”

She looks at him incredulously. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, well I’m an idiot with coffee.”

“Move.” Clarke growls.

“Nope.”

Clarke readies herself to pounce when Bellamy slides in between the two of them.

“Alright. That’s enough of that children.” He scolds.

“But-” Clarke stops when a warm cup of coffee comes into view. Bellamy smirks, obviously pleased with her reaction, and places the mug into her waiting hands. She moans as the bitter-sweet liquid slides down her throat and settles into her empty stomach.

“Mmm. Black and honey.” She smiles up at him, “You remembered.”

Bellamy snorts, “Of course I remembered. Who else ruins a good cup of black with honey?” He scrunches his nose, “Absolute abomination.”

“Hey!” She pokes his chest lightly, “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“Not going to happen.”

“You suck.” She sticks out her tongue.

“Oh do I now?” He waves a small package in front of her face and she follows the movement with her eyes.

“What’s that?” She reaches for it, but he pulls it out of her reach.

“Nope. I suck, remember?”

“Yeah, you do.” She deadpans, stepping forward to snatch the packet. When she uncurls her fingers, she finds two white pills encased in a plastic square. She turns it over to see the Advil logo and the usual warnings and directions written in text too small to read comfortably.

“Coffee and medicine?” Clarke hums, “You are the best.”

“Oh now I’m the best. I see how it is.”

“Quit flirting and come make me my bacon!” Octavia cuts in.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bellamy scoffs, as he waves her off. He turns back towards the stove, but not before Clarke can see the tips of his ears burning red.

She smiles to herself before ripping the package with her teeth and washing down the pills with her coffee. Murphy is still standing (or rather leaning) next to the coffee pot with a smirk on his face like he knows something no one else is privy to. So Clarke sticks her tongue at him too. She moves to join Monty and Miller at the island when Jasper bursts into the room with his usual morning energy. Taking a big sip from her cup, she sets it down on the counter next to her.

“Did you get the stuff?”

Jasper grins and holds up the plastic bag in victory. “Yup! Even got some extra eggs in case we didn’t have enough for breakfast and the drink.”

Miller’s face screws up in disgust, “Worcestershire sauce and eggs? What kind of monstrosity are you trying to get me to try, Monty?”

“It’s called the Prairie Oyster. Absolutely vile little thing, but it works.” Clarke shrugs and Monty and Jasper nod their agreement.

“We’ve been making it for years, nearly as long as we’ve been making moonshine.” Monty states.

“Nearly. Still working on how to fix the taste though.” Jasper agrees and rubs his chin in thought, “Maybe if we add sugar.”

“No!” Monty and Clarke shout in unison.

“Let’s not experiment before they can even try it.” Clarke suggests.

“Yeah we don’t want to kill them.” Monty murmurs.

“I’m hurt guys.” Jasper punctuates his point with a hand over his heart, “Absolutely hurt. I thought you had more faith in me.”

“In many things, Jasper, yes. But drink experimentation is not one of them.” Clarke tips her cup at him.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do.” He smiles and she returns it.

“So all I hear it not to try this thing.” Miller breaks up the moment.

“Oh it’s not that bad.” Jasper whines, “Sure, it’s got a bad aftertaste for a couple of hours. What hangover cure doesn’t though?” He pats Miller’s shoulders, “You’ll live.”

“H-hours?!” Miller sputters.

“Well I’m game.” Murphy declares, pushing himself off the counter and joining them at the island.

“I thought you had your cure?” Clarke quirks an eyebrow.

Murphy frowns into his empty cup, “I may have miscalculated the ratio of booze and coffee...”

“You’re buzzed aren’t you.”

“Shut up.”

                Clarke snorts, but says nothing more. Instead, she turns back to the others. “I’ll grab the glasses and you grab the other ingredients?” Jasper and Monty nod. “Awesome.”

She pushes away from the island and starts walking towards the pantry, counting as she goes. “Monty, Miller, Jasper, Murphy, me, Octavia?” She throws a glance over her shoulder towards the girl in question.

Octavia nods her head, “yeah, sure why not.” She snags a piece of bacon from the finished pile (Narrowly missing Bellamy’s swipe) “I’ll try anything once.”

Clarke nods her head and disappears into the pantry to grab six glasses. When she returns, lined up on the island is a carton of eggs, a bottle of tomato juice, the Worcestershire sauce, salt and pepper shakers, and a bottle of Tabasco sauce. Miller and Octavia re looking at the ingredients with undisguised disgust as Monty and Jasper prattle on about measurements. Murphy, surprisingly, looked unperturbed by it all.

“We’re going to be so sick,” Miller mutters and Octavia nods her head in agreement.

“Oh it’s not that bad,” Clarke lines up the glasses on the table, “You’ll love it the moment you can’t feel that headache anymore.”

“Yeah because my stomach will be dying instead.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, “No it won’t.”

“Whatever you say Clarke.” Octavia interjects, but the frown never slips off her face.

Jasper begins filling each glass with tomato juice, as Monty follows behind with the Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco sauce in each hand.

“Grab the salt and pepper would you Clarke?”

“Sure no problem.” She picks up the shakes and falls into line behind Monty. By the time Clarke had made it down the line, Jasper was almost done cracking the eggs into each glass.

“Okay that should do it.” Jasper declares after the last egg splashes into the final cup. Monty and Clarke distribute the cups (minus Bellamy of course) and everyone looks at the strange red/orange liquid.

“Bottoms up!” Monty cheers with a slight light of his cup. Jasper and Clarke return the salute before all threes down the content of their glasses.

The remaining of their friends look on in surprise, their eyes flickering from the cup to the trio and back again. Eventually it was Murphy who takes the plunge.

“Fuck it.” Murphy shrugs and shoots back the liquid. Octavia and Miller share a look before following.

“That was foul.” Octavia says as she wipes her mouth.

“Undoubtedly. The first time is always the worst.” Clarke smiles and pats her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, breakfast will wash it away.” She inclines her head toward Bellamy, “It ready yet?”

“Oh yeah. It’s been finished before you all even finished making that thing.” He nods toward the empty cup still in her hand. “But if you prefer your eggs raw...”

“Shut up, Blake.” Miller growls before lunging for the plate of bacon and shoving a piece in his mouth. “Oh that is just what I needed.” He moans between bites.

“That bad?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

“That bad.” Octavia answers, shoving a piece of her own in her mouth.

Murphy, Clarke, Jasper, and Monty shrug.

“I’ve had worse.” Murphy states.

“Agreed.” The rest say in unison.

Just then the doorbell rings and Bellamy pushes himself away from the stove. “I’ll get it.”

                He walks across the kitchen when Clarke sees Octavia’s widen for a fraction a second before chewing rather intently on her piece of bacon. Clarke watches her eyes flicker from Bellamy to the door and a sense of dread settles in Clarke’s stomach.  Oh no.

“Wait!” Octavia hastily calls out, “You made breakfast, I’ll get the door.”

Bellamy looks at her as if she’d grown a second head. “Uh… No, it’s okay. I’m already on it, O. Go ahead and eat.”

He ducks out of the room and Octavia scrambles to grab Clarke’s forearm (this really isn’t looking too well for Clarke) and yanks to hiss in her ear. “You need to go stop him!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m 90% sure that’s Lincoln at the door.” Octavia is already pushing Clarke towards the door.

“So? I don’t see why-” The pieces click into place, “Oh my god you didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Yell at me later! Right now save my ass!” And with that, Octavia shoves Clarke out of the kitchen just in time for Bellamy to open the door.

“Hey Bellamy.” Lincoln greets, completely unaware of the situation he is in. “I bought cider and wine.” He holds a bottle in each hand.

“Uhh….” Bellamy makes no move to either take the bottles or move to let him. Clarke took it as her cue to swoop in and save the fucking day. (Octavia was going to owe her for this.)

“Lincoln!” Clarke quickly crosses the room and envelops the man in a hug, “I’m so glad you could make it! Come in, come in!” She ushers him in. “I hope the drive out here was okay.” She says once he’s full inside.

Bellamy, who still looks super confused (not that she blames him), snaps out his reverie, “Yeah the drive can be brutal when you’re doing it solo.”

“No, the drive was fine. I’m used to long road trips by myself.” Lincoln shrugs, “And the directions Octavia gave me were super helpful.”

“Octavia?”

“Well of course Octavia gave him directions,” Clarke quickly covers, “ Do you really think I know the way after driving up here once? Like a what, a week ago?”

“I suppose not...” He mumbles.

Clarke rolls her eyes, “Well now that that’s covered.” She turns back to Lincoln and points to the archway leading to the kitchen, “Everyone in in the kitchen eating breakfast. I’m sure Octavia will let you know where to set the bottles down. Feel free to grab a plate too; Bellamy made plenty.” She pauses, “Also don’t take anything Jasper and Monty offer you. You don’t want to try it.”

Lincoln laughs, “So like the usual then?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” She joins in.

Lincoln nods his head to Bellamy and departs through the arch, leaving Clarke alone to explain to Bellamy. (Octavia was going to pay so much for this!)

She quickly whips back around to Bellamy and raises her hands in defense, “I’m so sorry! I hope it’s okay that he’s here and you don’t mind! He, uh, texted me! Yeah, he texted me to wish me a Happy New Years and we just got to talking.” She pauses to try and gauge his reaction, but his face remains impassive.

“I asked Octavia if it was okay to come up, because it’s his day off and his sister is busy running the bar and figured what would one more person hurt right?” Still nothing. “She said it was okay, but I asked her to ask you to be sure...” (Not entirely a lie.)

At that Bellamy snorts, “Well that explains it. You can’t trust O to do anything.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” She fidgets with the hem of her dress, “So you’re not mad right?”

Bellamy pauses to think, “Nah, I’m not mad.” He slings an arm around her shoulders and tucks her to his side, “I will be mad though if we don’t get in there before our friends eat all the food.”

Her mind stutters at the sudden intimate gesture. It wasn’t that it was out of the ordinary, (if this vacation taught her anything, it was that Bellamy Blake was a touchy person to those he cared about) it was that now Clarke realized she wanted the touches more and more. For them to mean more. She shakes her head. Still not the time for this, she mentally berated.

“Earth to Clarke.” Bellamy is looking a her with a smirk on his lips, but his eyes shine with a slight concern (Over what she doesn’t quite know). “You okay?”

She puts on a smile and snakes a hand around his middle. “Yeah, just got lost in my head imaging the destruction they could get into while we were gone.”

Bellamy throws his head back in laughter, “All the more reason to go back then.”

“Yeah...”

She takes in the wrinkles by his eyes from his smile and the way his head is tilted so the sunlight hits him at all the right angles to make him heartbreakingly beautiful. Her heart clenches at the sight and she had to tear her gaze away. “We should get back.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how this is a slow burn? WELL THINGS ARE FINALLY PICKING UP PEOPLE! I've talked and talked to my beta over and over again about this chapter trying to figure out if it was too soon for this, but I honestly think it's where I want them to be. BUT tell me what you think! Either down in the comments below or come talk to me on [Tumblr](awfullybashful.tumblr.com) where I post updates on writing and cry about The 100 and Bellarke.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and the kudos and comments; they make me smile all day long and make we want to do better for you guys! Catch you guys later!


	11. Five Minutes to Midnight Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Booze, lasers, dancing, and a crush on a boy she thought she hated. What is Clarke's life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how every author have a chapter that just won't work with them? That was this one for me.  
> Literally nothing wanted to work out the way I planned and it took my Beta and I wayyyyy too long to figure out which scenes should be included and GOD don't get me started on the freaking timeline.
> 
> But in the end, you just get a fucking fantastic chapter if I do say so myself.

            When Bellamy and Clarke walked back into the kitchen, everyone is surrounding the plate of bacon and happily munching away at a piece.

            "Tell me you assholes didn't eat all the bacon!" Clarke pouts, pulling away from Bellamy to cross her arms.

            Monty smiles and hands her the plate with two slices still on it. "Don't worry; I managed to save you a couple of slices."

            "That's all that's left?!" Bellamy looks at the plate in disbelief, "I made two packs!"

            Jasper shrugs, "You left bacon in a room full of like 5 college kids. What did you expect?"

            "He's got a point, Bell." Clarke nods and plucks piece from the plate. She bites off a chunk and hold out the plate to Bellamy, "We can make toast to go along with the eggs, while we make them go set the table?"

            "I got plates!" Jasper claims.

            "Cups!" Monty jumps in.

            Miller shrugs, "Silverware."

            "Lincoln and I will grab tablecloths!" Octavia links her arm with Lincoln's, "From the attic."

            Everyone turns to the only person in the room who did not speak.

            "What? I didn't say anything."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, "We noticed. Pick something."

            "Why should I?"

            "Because I assume you want to eat." Bellamy crosses his arms across his chest glaring at Murphy menacingly.

            Murphy groans, "Why do you have to be like that? Everyone took all the good jobs. Well besides Tav, who just wants to drag tall, dark, and broody to a dark corner-"

            Octavia stomps his foot, "Shut up Murphy." Murphy just glares at her.

            As always, Clarke is the one to defuse the situation. "Come on Murphy, we can grab the condiments," she looks over to the island that is still covered with the ingredients of the Prairie Oyster, "Maybe some actual drinks as well…"

            "Hell no." Murphy bites back, "I'm not working with you; you cost me 20 bucks!"

            Miller's head perks up, "I _told_ you it wasn't a basic tattoo!" He shoves a hand at Murphy, "Pay up!"Murphy grumbles and digs out a crumpled bill from his pocket, slamming it into Miller's palm.

            "See! This is why I'm not helping." And with that, Murphy storms out of the kitchen. The entire kitchen is silent.

            "You showed him your tattoo?" Bellamy sputters while at the same time Octavia screeches, "YOU SHOWED HIM BUT NOT ME!!!!"

            She lunges for Clarke, "What is it?? Where is it?? I want to see!"

            Clarke bats away Octavia's arms before she can start to tug on her dress, "On my ribs," Octavia opens her mouth, "And _no_ I will not strip right here and now to show you."

            Octavia pouts and returns to Lincoln's side, linking their arms together once more. "Fine, but you _will_ be showing me later. No way I'm going to let Murphy be the only one to have seen your piece!"

            "I've seen it." Jasper pipes up.

            "Me too," Monty adds.

            Octavia throws her hands up, "Unbelievable! Who else? Bellamy? Miller?" She stares pointedly at each.

            Bellamy stiffens, but it is Lincoln who tears Octavia's attention away, "Well…"

            "Seriously?!" Octavia groans and stalks out to the room, "So much for being friends Clarke! I'll remember this!"

            Clarke throws Lincoln an apologetic smile before he chuckles and follows after the younger Blake.

            "Okay, enough about my tattoo and more about food." She claps her hands together, "Chop chop everyone!"

            Jasper and Monty raise their hands in mock salutes, "Yes M'am!" They shuffle out of the room dragging Miller between them, leaving Bellamy and Clarke standing in the kitchen alone.

            "Okay, so what do we need in terms of condiment?" She turns to Bellamy, "I figure salt, pepper for the eggs, and butter for the toast," she ticks off each on her fingers, "But did you want anything else? Jam? Peanut butter?"

            "You showed Murphy your tattoo?" He asks instead.

            She rolls her eyes, "Yes. It was the only way to get him to leave me room so I could take a shower." She turns to the fridge to grab the butter, "Why else would I show him?"

            "Oh." He turns back to the stove and reignites the flame —probably to make more eggs now that they had another person to feed. "And Lincoln?"

            Clarke turns to give him an incredulous look, but he never meets her eyes. "Lincoln runs a bar/nightclub— of which I constantly frequent— that gets way too hot _not_ to wear something breezy. It's kind of hard to hide my tattoo with a crop top." She shakes her head and closes the fridge with her foot. "If I didn't know any better, Bell, I'd say you were jealous."

            "And what if I am?"

            This time, when her eyes snap to his, he's already looking— his gaze searing and captivating. Her throat constricts and she forcibly swallows. His tone scared her— the sincerity behind his words conveying a message she's not quite sure she is ready to hear. Yet, his question thrilled her; how could five words hold so many possibilities, each tempting her with what she desired— what she _craved_. Torn, she does what she does best: she runs.

            "Ha ha, very funny Bell." She tears her eyes away, suddenly finding the tub of butter in her hands _really_ interesting. "A fucking riot."

            "Clarke I-" He is cut off by crash coming from the pantry. (She's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed he didn't get to finish.)

            "Is everything alright?" Clarke calls out, only really _slightly_ worried.

            "They'll live," Miller calls back. A few moments later all three boys stumble into the kitchen with an armful of plates and silverware. "These two idiots tried to grab the plates from the top shelf with one of their brilliant plans." He puts quotes around the word brilliant and punctuates it with an eye roll.

            "Let me guess," Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose, "Human ladder?"

            The boys in question give her a sheepish grin, "To be fair it would have worked if Jasper didn't run into a spider web."

            "Hey!" Jasper throws his hands up, "Where there is a web there is a spider!"

            Bellamy shakes his head, "I'm in a house full of children."

            "Hey!" Clarke and Miller shout indignantly

            "I call it like I see it." Bellamy shrugs.

            "You're just an old man." Clarke quips gathering everything in her arms, "An old man yelling for the kids to get off his lawn."

            "An old man filled in a house of children."

            "Yeah, yeah." Clarke rolls her eyes, "Come on boys, let's leave grandpa here to cook while we go set up the table."

            Monty, Jasper, and Miller all shuffle out of the kitchen and into the dining room, but before Clarke can follow, Bellamy calls after her.

            "Hey Clarke?"

            "Yeah?" Her heart beat fills her ears.

            He shakes his head—seemingly deciding against what he was going to say (Good god get it together Clarke!). Instead he answers, "Can you hang back for a few? I need the butter to coat the pan."

            "Oh." She's still not sure if she's disappointed or relieved. "Yeah, um, let me just set these down on the island."

            She quickly places everything —sans the butter— on the counter and slides them so they are close to the dining table side of the room. Jasper and Monty are arguing over the finer merits of left vs. right placed silverware (don't ask her, man. Not even Clarke can keep up with the two sometimes) and Miller looks like he is regretting every life choice that led him to meet the two. She shakes her head and returns to Bellamy's side.

            "The butter." She holds out the tub to him. He reaches for it and in the process, his fingers graze hers (and if the touch lasts a little too long and her heart beats a little too fast no one needs to know).

            "Thanks." He murmurs drawing his hand away.

            "Yeah, uh," she swallows, feeling her cheeks heat up. "No problem."

            "Clarke! Bellamy!" Jasper yells from across the room.

            They both whip around (Clarke grateful for the opportunity to hide her growing blush). "What?"

            "Left or right?"

            "Left." They answer in unison and Jasper pumps a fist in the air.

            "Ha! In your face! Mom and Dad are totally on my side."

            "Mom and Dad?" Clarke blinks and turns to Bellamy. "Are they talking about us?"

            Bellamy shrugs, "They call you mom all the time; the dad part is new, though."

            "No they don't."

            "Yes we do." Jasper and Monty yell back.

            She whips around, "Well stop it!"

            They make some noncommittal hum and turn back to working on setting the table— now with left placed silverware. The jerks.

            "They do realize that they are going to have to take it all off when O gets back with the table cloth, right?" Bellamy murmurs next to her ear, a puff of hot air tickling her hair.

            Clarke snorts, "Let them figure it out on their own."

            Bellamy chuckles and turns back to the stove and she find that she misses the heat of his breath. She shakes her head and walks over to Miller, who is leaning against the island. A few seconds later Octavia bounds in with Lincoln in tow and a table cloth draped over one arm.

            "Why are you guys setting the table without the table cloth?"

            Jasper and Monty groan.

***

            By the time Bellamy cooks up another round of eggs and bacon (Because Bellamy would be damned if they think they can eat all the bacon and get away with it), the rest of them managed to set the table and seat themselves in an order that would ensure minimal chaos. And by that Clarke means Jasper and Monty were separated (Suck to be Miller). The rest of them filled in around them. Lincoln takes the head of the table— because whenever he gets seated next to people everyone ends up knocking elbows. Octavia sits to his left followed by Jasper and Miller. Monty sits at the other end of the table with Murphy to his left then Bellamy (the only flaw to their seating arrangement but Octavia was very adamant about Clarke sitting next to _her guest_ ) meaning Clarke is at Lincoln's right and across from Octavia. Miraculously everything was going smoothly until Octavia asked what it was like to work at the Dropship.

            Bellamy squints, "Why do you want to know?"

            "Because I'm curious B. Geez, back off will you?" She turns back to Lincoln with waiting eyes, "Anyways, go on Linc."

            "Linc? Since when are you two on nickname basis?!"

            "Shush!"

            "Uh," Lincoln clears his throat, "It's alright I guess. I mostly work the bar at night, only covering day shifts if Anya— my sister— needs to go off and do something."

            "So what do you do all day? Sleep?" Bellamy asks harshly.

            Clarke feels a sharp pain in her right shin and yelps.

            "Sorry!" Octavia apologizes and quickly turns to glare at her brother.

            Lincoln looks between the two before continuing on, "No, actually I'm apprenticing at my buddy's tattoo parlor. I've only got a few months left before I'm hired on as a full-time artist."

            "Wow!" Octavia reaches out and grabs his arm, "Are anyone of these done by you?"

            "Yeah,” He extends his arms for that his forearm is on display before Octavia. " I did this tree on my forearm a week or so ago."

            Clarke leans forward to get a better look. Stretching from his wrist to his bicep is a tree. The trunk was done in a dark brown ink that almost looks black (most likely mixed a bit of black into the ink) and had its roots extending towards his hand, but stopping below the meat of his palm. At the bend of his elbow was an explosion of vibrant green leaves that make up the crown of the tree.

            "Wow." Octavia marvels, "That's beautiful."

            Lincoln shrugs, his cheeks tingeing pink, "It's uh, a family thing." He smiles softly, "You should see Anya's piece. It goes up her entire left side and extends onto her back. "

            "Does she have leaves too or just branches?" Clarke asks, drawing her eyes up from the tattoo.

            "She got the branches in black then a watercolor mixture of blues browns and greens behind it."

            Clarke whistles, "Damn. That must have cost her a fortune."

            Lincoln nods, "About a grand."

            "Holy shit!" Bellamy chokes, "All that for just a tattoo? Talk about a wast-"

            Clarke feels another sharp pain collide with her shin, "Ow!" She viciously turns to glare at the source, "Octavia!"

            "I'm sorry! It's not my fault Bellamy's leg is close to yours!

            "Yes it is!"

            "Uhh," Monty tilts his head, "I feel like I'm missing part of the conversation, here."

            "Blake's being an ass, so Tav is trying to kick him under the table, but keeps hitting princess instead," Murphy says around a mouthful of eggs.

            "I'm not being rude!" Bellamy scowls.

            "My shin says otherwise," Clarke mumbles backing away from the table to inspect the damage.

            "You're being _extremely_ rude B."

            "Am not!"

            The two siblings dissolve into bickering leaving the rest of them to look awkwardly between the two as they go back and forth. Well everyone except Murphy who was scarfing down another helping of bacon and eggs. He turns to Monty and points to his untouched piece of toast.

            "Are you going to eat that?" Monty just shakes his head and slides his plate over and Murphy grabs the bread and rips off a piece.  "Awesome."

 

* * *

 

            Clarke is walking towards the living room to join Jasper and Monty when Octavia catches her arm and pulls her aside.

            "You need to get Bellamy the hell out of this house."

            "What? Why?" Clarke pulls her arm back.

            "Because he's driving me up a wall and keeps hovering over me." She huffs, "If you seriously don’t get him out I'm going to murder him. Actually murder."

            Clarke contemplates this for half a second before answering simply, "No."

            "Why not?!"

            "Because I'm sick of playing keep away with Bellamy just so you can flirt with Lincoln. I already covered for you once. Rope Miller into it or something." She turns to go again, but Octavia tightens her grip.

            "Please Clarke. B, will know something is up if Miller tries. It has to be you."

            "And why is that?"

            Octavia rolls her eyes, "You're kidding me right? You're the only person who could get him to sit out on a dock in the middle of freaking winter just to keep you company when you draw! He'll listen to you if you ask him!!"

            "I don't-"

            "Please? Only for like an hour or two, that's all I ask!"

            Clarke's gaze flickers over to the kitchen entrance and hears Bellamy laugh. The sound sends a shiver down her spine, "I can't."

            "But why not?"

            "Because I have no idea how to keep him out of the house for two hours. Because it's freaking cold as hell out. Because he'll know something is up!" _Because I think I'm falling for your brother and I don't know how to handle that right now._

            Octavia's eyes soften and she relaxes her grip, "Clarke." She waits until Clarke meets her gaze, "Please. I really like him. Like _really really_ like him, more than I've liked someone in a while. _Please_ , I'm just asking for a couple of hours."

            Clarke holds her gaze for another moment before she breaks. "Fine."

            Octavia perks up, "Really?"

            "Really." Clarke sighs and Octavia throws her arms around her.

            "Thank you!"

            Clarke hugs her back, "Just…" She glances back at the kitchen, "make it count alright?"

            Octavia beams at her, "I will!"

            "Right." She pulls away, "Well if you excuse me, I have your brother to drag out of the house. Somehow…"

            Octavia gives her a little thumbs up before walking over to the couch to join Monty and Jasper in her stead. Clarke steels her nerves and heads into the kitchen where Bellamy and Miller are talking about something in hushed voices.

            Clarke stops a little ways away and crosses her arms."You're not talking about me are you?"

            Bellamy snorts, "Please, I was asking Miller here how long he is going to wait until he finally asks Monty to be exclusive."

            Clarke pauses, "Wait you're not already?"

            Miller drops his head in his hands, "I hate you both."

            He walks out of the kitchen to join the others. Bellamy rolls his eyes and turns back to the sink. Clarke pats Miller on the shoulder and gives him a small smile as he passes her. She walks over to Bellamy and hops on the counter next to him.

            "You know that's not a seat right?" Bellamy smirks.

            "If I can sit on it, it's a seat." Bellamy just laughs and turns back to his work. "So."

            Bellamy cocks an eyebrow, "So?"

            “So, Octavia is kicking me out and I’m dragging you with me.”

            “And why is O kicking you out?”

            Clarke shrugs, leaning against the cabinet, “Something about snacks and booze?” _Totally not to flirt with the 6’ piece of muscle currently sitting in your living room._

            “And you need me because?” He draws out the last syllable.

            “You’re my favorite?” His eyes call her on her bullshit, “And because I don’t know where to buy the good booze and food? _And_ because you have a legitimate ID to buy said booze?”

            Bellamy chuckles, “Fair point.” He sets down a dish, “What about Lincoln?”

            “What about him?”

            “Are you sure you want to leave him to fend for himself? He’s your friend after all.”

            Clarke waves him off, “Nah, Octavia will keep him busy.” Bellamy visibly tenses and Clarke quickly backtracks. “I mean they have a lot in common! Lincoln is one of those outdoorsy people Octavia likes to surround herself with.” When his jaw still does not unclench she adds, “Besides, Monty and Jasper will probably talk his ear off about a new recipe they are working on or whatever.”

            At that, Bellamy finally seems to relax, “I don’t know…”

            “Come on, Bell.” She nudges him with her knee, “Tell me you don’t want to get out of here for a bit. It’ll be fun.” _And possible torturous for me. Yay._

He thinks about it for a minute before nodding his head, “Alright.”

            “Alright?”

            “Alright. Let me just finish up these dishes and get dressed then we can head out.”

            “Wait!” Clarke’s hand shoots out to still his arm, “I have a better idea.” She grins, “Octavia!”

            “What?” A muffled voice drifts in from the living room.

            “Get in here!”

            Octavia’s head pops into view after a few seconds, “What?”

            “Finish up the dishes so Bellamy and I can go to the store before the New Year rush.”

            Octavia scrunches up her nose and groans. “No way. It’s his turn to-” Clarke gives her a look, and Octavia shuts her mouth.

            “May I remind you that this was _your_ idea?”

            “Urgh! Fine!” Octavia throws her hands up and stalks into the kitchen fully.

            Clarke grins and hops off the counter, “Great!” She pats Bellamy on the shoulder, “You go get dressed and I’ll be in the living room!” She walks past Octavia with a grin so wide the Cheshire Cat would be jealous. She squeezes herself between Jasper and Monty and plucks the controller from the former.

            “Okay boys, whose ass am I kicking?”

            Murphy looks up at her from the floor and sneers, “Bring it on Princess.”

 

* * *

 

            By the time Bellamy had finished getting dressed and made his way down the stairs, Clarke is dancing around the living room with the controller in her hand.

            “What was that Murphy?” She gloats, “I can’t hear you over the utter destruction of your game!”

            “Bite me, Princess!” Murphy growls.

            “Aw don’t be like that!” Clarke puts her hands on her hips, “No one likes a sore loser.” She turns to the rest, “So who’s losing next?”

            Bellamy laughs, “Okay, calm down there frat boy. We need to get going if you want to get there before the good booze is gone.”

            “Aw come on, Bell! One more-” Clarke turns around and her brain short circuits.

            Now Bellamy has always been good looking, but Clarke guesses that by _maybe_ admitting she had feelings for the guy kind of magnified his attractiveness. How else could she explain her eyes being glued to his tight black jeans that just accentuated his legs in the perfect way? Or  the way his —almost knee length— grey coat made his shoulders impossibly broader and— god did she mentioned that it was double breasted (What is it about a double breasted coat that makes a guy infinitely more hot?) Not to mention how he was wearing those casual shoes that look like they are dress shoes (Sue her she doesn’t know the name of them, but god does Bellamy wear them well.) and that scarf! (Clarke may just have a thing for dudes who can accessorize.)

            “Pick your jaw off the ground Princess.” Murphy smirks, “Save it for when you’re in the sack.”

            Clarke’s jaw snaps shut and she can feel her whole face heart up, “Shut it, Murphy.”

            He flips her off in response and turns back to the TV, muttering something she cannot decipher. So, she throws her controller at him base on principle.

            “Ouch! Fuck! What was that for?!” He rubs his head where the controller hit.

            Clarke points a finger at him, “You know what you said!”

            “Yeah, I said you’re a bi-”

            “Don’t even _finish_ that sentence, Murphy,” Bellamy warns, a growl in his tone. Murphy complies.(albeit with more indecipherable grumbling)

            Clarke smirks and turns back to Bellamy only to find him smirking at her.  She slants her eyes, “You shut it too.”

            Bellamy just laughs, “Come on Clarke.” He jingles his keys, “Booze awaits.”

            She pauses, “Wait. I’ll drive.” _That way I have something to distract me from staring at you the entire drive there_. “Let me grab my purse then we’ll go.”

            Bellamy sighs dramatically, “You mean to tell me you weren’t ready by the time I came down?”

            She rolls her eyes, “Well somebody needed to kick their butts in the game!”

            “Go get your shit, Clarke.”

She sticks out her tongue and darts up the stairs for her purse. She can do this. _What’s the worst that could happen?_

 

* * *

 

            Clarke slaps Bellamy’s hand from the radio for what happens to be the third time since they have gotten in the car. She points a finger at him.

            “I swear to god Bell if you try to change the station one more time-”

            “Who wants to listen to a freaking classical station?!” Bellamy interrupts, thumping his head against the head rest.

            “I’m sorry but if I have to hear one more Beatles song, I’m going to drive us off a cliff.”

            Bellamy gasps, “You take that back! The Beatles paved the way for so many bands— not to mention the genius that was McCartney and Lennon!”

            Clarke gives him the side-eye as she eased on the brakes to stop at a red light. “I thought you were more of a classic rock guy anyways? You know like Led Zeppelin, Queen, Aerosmith.” She thinks of the shirt hidden deep in her bag, “Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

            “Yes, but the _Beatles_ Clarke!”

            Clarke laughs, “Yeah well driver picks the music and shotgun shuts his pie hole.”

            “Don’t quote Supernatural at me, Clarke. Dean Winchester would be ashamed!”

            “Maybe I like Sam better?”

            “Lies.” Bellamy laughs and points out the window to their left, “You’re going to make a left turn here and the store should be on your right.”

            “Got it.” Clarke flicks on her blinker and maneuvers into the turn lane. She taps her fingers to the meter of the song as she drives. After a few moments, she pulls into the parking lot and turns to Bellamy, “You know when you said you knew just the place to get alcohol I wasn’t expecting a BevMo! to be it.”

            “Not everything is this hole-in-a-wall shop, Clarke.” Bellamy scoffs, “Sometimes corporate businesses are just the way to go.”

            “Sellout.”

            “Hipster.”

            He shoots her a smile and she playfully shoves him as he climbs out of the car.

            “So what is the game plan?”

            Bellamy closes the door and leans against the car, “I figured we’d grab a case or two of beer that way we have something softer to drink than getting shitfaced. Maybe a few bottle of whatever we want?”

            Clarke nods her head, “So bourbon for you, rum for Miller, gin and vodka for me.” She claps her hands together, “You get the beer, and I’ll take the spirits?”

            Bellamy nods his head thoughtfully and pushes off the car, “Sounds like a plan.”

            “Awesome!” Clarke closes her door, “Also remind me to grab gas on our way back?”

            “Why do you need gas?”

            “Because I’m almost on empty?”

            Bellamy scoffs, “Yeah, but it’s not like you’re driving back to school or anything anytime soon?”

            “Aren’t I?” Clarke blinks.

            “What are you talking about?”

            Clarke begins to fidget with the hem of her dress, “Well you guys invited us all stay for New Years, but I figured you’d want some actual alone time with your sister after that. I mean, I practically invaded your Christmas already.”

            “Clarke.” Bellamy jogs around the car, grabs her hand from her dress and ducks his head so her eyes meet his. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. You did _not_ invade anything, okay? You were invited. You were invited because you were alone in your dorm ready to spend freaking Christmas by yourself after the shit storm of Finn and your mother. We _want_ you to be here, okay? _I_ want you here.”

            She sucks in a breath, but it is as if the air has been blown away, leaving her suspended in the brown of his eyes and the ringing of his words.

            _He said he wants you here_ , her heart beats. _He wants you._

            _You are wanted_ , another voice whispers.

            The revelation hits her like a wave, and she staggers back a step, but he just laces their fingers together to anchor her down.

            “Don’t feel as if you don’t have a place here.” His grip tightens for a fraction of a second, “You have a place as long as you want it. With Jasper and Monty. With Miller. With Octavia.” _With me_ , she hears in the implication.

            “I want to.” She whispers, “Stay, I mean.” She ducks her head a little, “As long as that’s okay…”

            When he does not respond right away, she risks a peek. He is smiling, bright and wide and it is like the air is rushed from her all over again. Only this time, she smiles back.

            “Then we better hurry and finish up here so we can head back.” He leans back, taking a step towards the store and tugging her hand with him.

            She follows him step for step, letting him lead her into the store. He never lets go of her hand.

 

* * *

 

            “I can’t believe you stole a car from New York’s senator.” Bellamy laughs, grabbing a bottle of Kraken from the shelf.

            “Well obviously I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was stuck in freaking DC while my mother was visiting Senator Jaha— who may I remind you is practically an uncle to me— and bored out of my mind!” Bellamy just gives her a look. “I returned it!”

            He throws his head back with a laugh and gives her hand a little squeeze, “I’m not sure that justifies taking it in the first place.”

            “I don’t know I was _really_ bored…”

            “Oh I’m sure.” He deposits the bottle in the basket she carries at her left and looks over the contents. “I think that’s about it.” He flashes a smile, “Ready to get out of here?”

            She hums in agreements, and they make their way over to the cash register to pay when she realizes they forgot the beer.

“Shit, we forgot the beer.” Clarke sets the basket down on the counter, “You stand in line while I go and grab it.”

Bellamy shakes his head, “Nah, I’ll grab it, you stay.”

“You sure? I’m the one who got us off track with stories about my deviant escapades.”

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugs, “Anything you want in particular?”

“Not really, just grab whatever strikes your fancy.”

            “Nothing strikes my fancy, that’s why we got the bourbon.” He smirks.

            She swats his shoulder, “Quite being a smart ass and just grab something.”

            He raises his hand in a mock salute and slowly backs away with a cheeky grin. She watches as their fingers drag apart, as if both are reluctant to lose the contact that binds them together— like some spell will be broken if they do. When the tips of his fingers finally brushed past hers, she has to stop herself from reaching out to recapture them. Instead, her grip tightens on the basket and watches as his figure disappears behind a corner.  She can feel her heart clench and she wonders just how it got so far without her noticing.

            Allowing herself a small moment, she steels herself and turns back to the counter to load up the bottles on the conveyer belt. What she finds instead is a slender girl staring at her with a 1000-watt smile.

            “Uh…” Clarke takes a look around, trying to figure out what she is smiling at. “Hello?”

            “Oh my god. That was literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!”

            “E-excuse me?”

“You and your boyfriend!” The girl elaborates, “I saw you guys around the store bickering with each other like some old married couple; yet you never let go of each other’s hands.” Her smile widens, “Gag worthy, let me tell you.”

            She pauses and sneaks a glance around, leaning forward when she is sure the coast is clear (for what exactly Clarke cannot say).

            “Not to mention your boyfriend is totally drool worthy. Like, Greek god material.  I mean look at those curls!” The girl (Roma her name tag informs Clarke) swoons, “I could run my fingers through that all _night_.” Clarke stiffens and Roma must notice because she quickly backtracks, “Not that I would even think about trying anything!”

She snorts a little at that. “I doubt he’d even bat an eye in my direction.”

“But you’re beautiful!” Clarke burst out, because it seems like her brain is broken.

            Roma smirks, “I do well enough, but I could be butt-ass-naked and it still wouldn’t tear his attention as long as you’re in the room.”

            “But-”

            “So I grabbed a 12 pack of Corona and figured that’d be enough. If not, I could literally care less.” Bellamy says as he reappears at Clarke’s side. He peers down to see the still unloaded basket in her hands, “You didn’t unload?”

            “Oh! We just got to talking and lost track of time.” Roma waves him off, “It happens.” She sends a wink in Clarke’s direction. She peers down into the basket, “So a 12 pack of Corona, bottle of Kraken, bottle of Svedka strawberry lemonade, bottle of Tanqueray, and a bottle of Jefferson’s Reserve.” She quickly taps away at the screen for a couple of moments before turning to Bellamy, “That’ll be 112.22.”

            Bellamy clicks his tongue, but pulls out his wallet and swipes his card all the same. Clarke grimaces and digs around in her purse to see if she has any cash. She finds a couple twenties and a fifty tucked away behind her ID. Plucking it out, she tucks the bill into her pocket to give him later.

            "Ready to go?" Bellamy asks, drawing her attention back to him.

            "Mhm!" Clarke smiles and then notices that he's carrying all the bags, "Oh! Let me grab some of those." She reaches for the bags in his right hand.

            "Are you sure they're not too heavy for you?" He smirks, "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

            Clarke quirks an eyebrow, "Do I have to retell the stories of little Clarke and the stairs?"

            "I don't see any stairs here." He means it to be condescending, but the smile on his face gives him away.

            She playfully knocks her shoulders against his, "You're an ass."

            He starts striding to the door, "An ass who just paid for your alcohol."

            She sticks out her tongue and increases her pace to match his long stride. She pops the trunk open with her keys when they get closer to the car and tucks the bottles into the side pocket (rolling bottles of alcohol plus bumpy forest roads just don't mix). She toys with the bill in her pocket as she waits for Bellamy to set the box of  Corona down. He situates the box, as well as the remaining bottles, so they would not move during the drive and shuts the trunk with a click.

            She pulls the folded bill and holds it out for him. "Here, for the alcohol."

            He looks down at the fifty, but makes no move to grab it. "I don't need your money Clarke."

            Clarke snorts, "Of course you do. You just shelled out over a hundred dollars on alcohol, half of which you won't even touch." She stretches her arm a little further. "Take the money, Bell. Let me reimburse you."

            He still makes no move to grab it. Instead, his shoulders stiffen and the muscle in his jaw ticks. "No."

            "No?" She blinks, "Well why not?"

            "I have enough money to cover a small splurge for my sister and friends, Clarke."

            "Well of course you do. I wasn't insinuating-" She pauses and something clicks in place. "Is that what this is about? Some sort of inferiority complex? Because I come from money?"

            "No." He bites back, but she knows it's not the truth.

            A sting of rejection spikes through her chest, and she feels her throat begin to tighten. _Of course Clarke, what were you thinking? That he'd like you? You're just a spoiled princess,_ a . voice whisper. It sounds like the one that plagued her after Finn. She squashes it down and clenches her fist. The sharp dig of her nails keeps her grounded.

            "Then what is it about, Bellamy?" She pauses and tries to swallow down her rising frustration. 

_Spoiled princess._

            She shakes her head. They were past this. He knows her better than that. "Look, Bell, I'm not offering because I think you need to money. I'm offering because you shouldn't have to pay for everything yourself." She holds out the money to him again, "Just let me help."

            "I don't want your money Clarke."

            _Spoiled princess_.

            Something snaps in her, "Well too  fucking bad because you've got it! You can either take my help now, or find it stuffed in your t-shirt drawer at home."

            Shock flashes across his face, but it quickly gets buried beneath the death glare he slits his eyes into. "Fine!"

            "Fine!"

            Bellamy snatches the money from her hand and stalks around the car and into the passenger seat. The slam of the door makes her flinch, but she remains rooted to her spot next to the trunk.

            "Fine." She says softer.

 

* * *

 

            The car ride is silent. The radio is still on the classical station, but even the sweet melody of Lady Labyrinth could not pierce the tension. Clarke's knuckles are white from her grip on the steering wheel, and she can feel the unsaid words hanging in the air, both too proud to concede to the other. Her grip tightens.

            "There is a gas station to your right after the next light."

            Her stomach drops and her eyes snap towards his direction. He's already looking out the window when she does.

            "Thanks."

            It feels like a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

            It's snowing again. _Of course_ it is snowing again because life sucks and mother nature hates her.

            "Fucking Octavia," Clarke mutters as she rubs the goose bumps from her arms. "'Oh don't worry, Clarke. The forecast said it wouldn't start snowing until later tonight,'" She mocks in a falsetto, "My ass."

            She pushes open the door of the convenience store because _of course_ the card reader is broken on the pump she pulled up to. (Has she mentioned that life sucks? Because it really does.) The door chimes and the clerk's head pokes above an aisle at the back of the store.

            "I'll be with you in a second!" She calls out.

            Clarke gives the girl a small smile before she disappears beneath the aisle again. Clarke leans against the counter, closes her eyes and massages the bridge of her nose. The conversation with Bellamy is playing on repeat and all she can think of is what she could have done differently. She could have been more understanding. She could have not let her temper get the better of her. She could have said the thing that was really bothering her instead of just slipping back into their old pattern. She could have done so many things differently, but she's standing here in some random gas station convenience store while Bellamy sits in her car probably thinking how he can take back what he said earlier. And she can't do a damn thing about it.

            "What can I help you with?" A chipper voice catches her attention.

            Clarke opens her eyes to see the clerk making her way towards the counter. "Your card reader on number 4 is broken."

            "Ah," she gives an apologetic smile, "Sorry about that. I've told my manager three times now, but he still won't get it fixed." Clarke shrugs, but doesn't offer anything more to say. The clerk walks around the counter and types away at the cash register for a few seconds, "So how much you want to put on it?"

            Clarke thinks for a moment, "Put 35 on it just to be safe."

            "Okie Dokie!"

            The clerk turns back to the cash register, when the door chimes and another man walks into the store, bringing with him a gust of wind that sends a chill racing down Clarke's spine. She shivers and rubs her hands down her arms faster to chase away the newly formed goose bumps. The clerk (Harper. Read the name tags Clarke, gosh.) raises an eyebrow and gives Clarke a look.

            "You do realize it's the middle of winter right? It's snowing and everything."

            Clarke snorts, "Yeah well my friend apparently didn't think I needed a coat when she packed my bags. Not to mention she's way too small for me to fit anything of hers." Clarke pauses, "Now that I think about it, this might have been her plan all along."

            Another patron walks into the store, and Clarke crosses her arms tightly across her chest. Harper gives her a sympathetic look. "Well all you need to do is swipe and you'll be good to go."

            "Awesome." Clarke swipes her card and waits until the receipt machine starts spitting out a sheet of paper.

            "Receipt?"

            "No thanks."

            Harper rips the paper from the machine and crumbles it up, "Okay, you're set then!" She gives Clarke a big smile, "Have a nice day, and stay warm!"

            "Thanks." Clarke tucks her credit card back into her wallet and heads back out to the door.

            The moment she steps outside the store, she notices that it is not only still snowing, but the wind that followed in the patrons wasn't just from the air curtain, but an actual chilly wind. Clarke looks listlessly out towards her car and then the pump and wraps her arms tighter around herself. _Just great_.

            "Fucking Octavia." She tugs on her sleeves a little, but that only allows the air to slip through her sweater dress easier.

            She makes her way as quickly as she can towards the car and unscrews the gas cap. In one swoop, she picks up the nozzle, shoved it into the gas tank, and hit the button. She squeezes the handle until the latch catches and numbers start ticking up rapidly on the screen. Wiggling in place, she glances into the car only to see Bellamy pointedly not looking in her direction, but rather staring down the very interesting empty parking lot. She sighs. There is no way she can hide away in the car until the pump stops (Lest she wants to enjoy yet another tense filled silence with the boy she may quite possibly be half in love with). Nope, she's going to have to stay out here in the snow.

            She rubs her hands together and brings them to her face to blow in them. The warmth of her breath tickles her nose and she tries to rub the feeling back into her fingers.  Her eyes slick back to the pump to see the numbers climbing up to fifteen dollars and a small groan escapes her lips. _Fucking Octavia_. Another gust of wind blows through and she shifts her weight from foot to foot trying to warm her body though actual physical movement. It doesn't work.

            "For crying out loud!" She curses and rubs her arms violently, "Finish already!"

            The car door opens, and Bellamy steps out into the cold. Clarke stiffens, not quite sure if he has come for a round two of their argument, or if he's finally had enough being within ten feet of her and decided to hide in the convenience store until she's done. Apparently he chooses the former, as he rounds the car and comes to stand next to her. He doesn't meet her eyes. She tenses, waiting for the biting remark, but, to her surprise, it never comes.

            "Hey." He buries his hands in his pockets and tucks his chin further into his coat.

            "Hey." She blows in her hands again and stares at the rising numbers. Any moment now…

            He sighs and full turns to face her, "Look, I-" he pauses, "I was a jerk earlier. I shouldn't have snapped at you like I did. It's just-" He stops again and raises his gaze to the sky. It takes a moment before his eyes meet hers again. "Money has always been a sensitive issue, and I just—I don't know Clarke. Don't leave okay?"

            "I thought _you_ wanted me to leave!" She blurts out.

            "Are you kidding me?" he says incredulously, "I already gave you the whole spiel about how I wanted you to stay at BevMo! Why on Earth would you think _I_ wanted you to leave?!"

            "I don't know!" Clarke throws her hands up, "Because you think I'm just some spoiled princess with a trust fund, and I'm not!" Her voice drops, "I wasn't trying to make you feel as if you don't have enough money, Bellamy. I just didn't want you to feel like I'm taking advantage of your hospitality. I mean half of the bottles are for me anyways." She mutters, "I would have done it for anyone."

            He groans and runs a hand over his face, "I know that's why I feel like such an ass!" He meets her eyes, "I know you're not like that Clarke."

            She opens her mouth to say something when a gust of whip cuts her off with a shiver.

            "Jesus, Clarke!" Bellamy quickly begins unbuttoning his coat and shedding his scarf, "What are you even doing standing out here in the freaking _snow_ without a coat on?! You're going to catch a cold!"

            He drapes the coat around her shoulders and she burrows into its warmth. "Blame your sister and her motto of dresses over freezing to death." Clarke slips her arms through the coat and buries her (nearly frozen) fingers in the pocket.

            Bellamy tugs on the collar of the coat and brings it closer around her neck. He begins to wrap the scarf around her neck, "Well you should have stopped her." Clarke levels him with a look, "Well, at least you should have asked to borrow one from me or something."

            Clarke looks down at the coat she's currently swimming in, "I don't think I quite fit your clothes either, Bellamy."

            Bellamy buttons the coat near the top, "Yeah, but at least you'd be warm."

            Clarke hums and lets the warmth flood over her. It is accompanied by the familiar scent of cinnamon and pine. She tucks her chin in deeper. (It's just as well, she could feel her cheeks begin to heat up under all the attention and the touching)

            "Thanks."

            He smiles and tucks his hands into the pocket of his pants, "It's not a problem."

            They stand there for a moment until the click of the gas pump catches both of their attention. Clarke grabs the handle and eases it out of the gas tank and back onto the pump. She's half expecting for Bellamy to walk back around and get into the car, but he just patiently waits as she screws the gas cap back on, giving it a couple clicks, before closing the hatch.

            "All right. We're good to go." She announces.

            Bellamy pushes himself off the car and walks to the other side, "Great. Let's go home."

            Clarke beams at the words. "Yeah, home."

 

* * *

 

            Home, as it turns out, is a cabin filled with teenagers screaming loudly and banging against God knows what.

            Bellamy sighs when he steps through the door and close it. "Do I even want to know?"

            "Is it too late to walk back out the door and pretend they aren't up to something stupid?"

            There is a crash that sounds a lot like glass breaking, followed by some loud boos. "That would be no." Bellamy hikes the box higher in the crook of his arm and starts walking toward the source of the crash, "If you broke anything valuable, you are paying for it!"

            Clarke shakes her head and trails after him. They find the gang sitting around the island with a ton a shot classes of all shapes littered around the surface. Some are turned over on their heads and others sit upright and filled with various liquids of gold and green. They all have their heads down and are banging away at the counter with their palms of their hands. Clarke's worried they are going to shake off the glasses at the rate their going. (Something tells her they already have.)

            "What are you guys doing?" Bellamy set the box down, "And did you break one of my shot glasses?"

            "B!" Octavia's head shoots up, "Welcome back!"

            "Are you guys freaking buzzed?"

            "I blame Monty." Octavia whips around and points a finger at the accused.

            "Well it wasn't my fault!" Monty points a finger at Jasper, "He's the one who practically demanded we play a game!"

            "That's because Miller shoved a drink down my throat!" Jasper complains.

            Miller snorts, "Murphy is the one who got the alcohol."

            Everyone turns to Murphy who just shrugs and nods his head. "I'll take the blame for that one."

            Bellamy looks at them all like they're crazy. "It's only four in the afternoon!"

            "Happy hour somewhere!" Murphy smiles.

            Everyone cheers and returns around the island, beating their palms in a rhythm. Clarke shakes her head and walks over to the fridge to put away the alcohol for later. (Because let's be honest, more alcohol is the _last_ thing they all need at this moment.) Bellamy joins her a second later and begins unloading some of the bottles of Corona into the freezer to cool down sooner.

            Before they could finish, Jasper screams out, "Medusa!" and all of their heads snap up in different directions. Bellamy watches on in fascination as Miller and Murphy curse and reaches for one of the shots. The remaining three are screaming in laughter as the two boys shoot back their drink.

            "Where's Lincoln?" Clarke calls over their screaming.

            Lincoln pokes a hand out from behind the mass of bodies. "Right here."

            Clarke walks around the group to see Lincoln sitting at the table nursing a glass of water as he watched the teenagers drink their weight in shots. Clarke raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms across her chest.

            "What did they kick you out?"

            Lincoln laughs, "More like I kicked myself out."

            Bellamy smirks and shuts the fridge. "What couldn't handle the liquor?"

            "More like that hangover cure _really_ doesn't like when you try to wash it away with more alcohol."

            "I thought I told you not to accept anything from Jasper and Monty!"

            The boys in question whip around, "It wasn't us!"

            Lincoln waves them off, "It's true." He gives Clarke a weak smile, "You didn't say anything about Octavia."

            "Rite of passage!" Octavia yells out, "We all suffer together."

            "You're a terrible person."

            "And I'm okay with that."

            There is another round of whoops and this time Jasper and Monty drink.

            "You were supposed to turn right!" Jasper complains.

            "No it was left!" Monty wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's Left, left, left, right, left, right, left, right,  right!"

            "Noooo. It's left, left, right, right, left, left, left, right, right!"

            "That's if there is an even number of people dude!"

            "We _are_ even!"

            "No we're at 5!"

            Jasper pauses for a minute. "Oh yeah." He grins sloppily, "My bad dude."

            "Enough of the nerd babble!" Murphy growls, "Time for another round."

            "I think you've guys have had enough." Clarke jumps in.

            "I'll say." Bellamy points to the numerous flipped over shots, "There are like 20 of these things turned over. Not to mention the pile of glass just laying on the floor."

            Octavia waves him off, "We'll clean it up later!"

            "No, you'll clean it up now before someone steps on it and we have to drive to the hospital because one of you drunks need stitches."

            "Princess over there can stitch us up. No need for the hospital." Murphy hikes a thumb at Clarke.

            "While true," Clarke cuts in, "that doesn't mean I want to. Clean up the glass."

            "But mommmmm!" Jasper whines.

            "I'm serious Jasper." Clarke points a finger, "It'll be just my luck that _I'm_  the one who steps in it. I can't stitch myself up. Clean it."

            "Yes, mom." He nudges Monty and the two go off to grab the broom and dust-pan.

            Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "You know what? Let's just watch a movie or something."

 

* * *

 

            They ended up watching _The Babadook_. It was terrible.

            "The fuck?" Murphy waves a hand at the screen, "Was this all just in her head? Did we literally sit here for nothing."

            Octavia turns around to face Clarke, "Can we start drinking now?"

 

* * *

 

            "One of you bitches help me move this couch!" Octavia screams from the living room.

            Clarke pushes herself away from the table (now with significantly more shots turned on its head) and makes her way over to Octavia who is struggling to push the couch out of the way. Instead of asking exactly why Octavia was trying to move the couch, like a sober person would do, Clarke joins her on the other side and helps her moves the couch against the stairs.

            "Why did we move the couch?" Clarke asks as they both collapse on the cushions.

            "Dance party!" Octavia jumps off the sofa and scrambles over to the arm chair to push it next to the couch.

            Jasper pokes his head in through the door, "Did someone say dance party?"

            "Yes!" Octavia smiles

            "Awesome! I call DJ!"

            "What's going on?" Monty wanders in.

            "Dude," Jasper whirls towards his best friend, "Dance party."

            Monty breaks out into a grin, " _Yes_!"

            "You grab the back I'll grab the laptop?"

            "On it!"

            They both rush up the stairs leaving Clarke and Octavia alone, as they look at each other in confusion. Eventually they just shrug and continue to move the furniture against the walls until there is a huge open space that takes up the center of the room. Clarke is grabbing the knick knacks from the fireplace mantle (let's be honest, when Jasper and Monty get going, they tend to knock shit over), when Bellamy, Miller, Lincoln, and Murphy trickle into the room, each with either a cup or bottle in hand.

            "Why are you guys moving the furniture?" Bellamy asks

            "Two words," Jasper calls from the top of the stairs, "Dance. Party." He slides down the railing and lands on his feet, just barely managing to stay upright. Throwing his hands (laptop dangerously loose in one hand) up in victory, he lets loose a whoop.

            "Incoming!" Monty yells as he too slides down the railing and collides with Jasper, sending them both sprawling on the floor.

            Clarke covers her eyes with a hand, "Guys. Seriously?"

            Apparently, they either did not hear her, or simply decided to ignore her. Knowing them, it is probably the latter. Jasper is already scrambling towards the coffee table and propping open his laptop before Clarke can even bother to say anything more. He tabs open Spotify, while Monty ambles over and starts digging around in his bag.

            "Ah-ha!" He pulls free two small square boxes along with a slightly bigger rectangular one.

            "What are those?" Miller asks as he slumps down onto the couch.

            "Lasers!" Jasper yells, still hunched over his laptop.

            "And a strobe light," Monty adds.

            "Why the fuck do you have lasers?" Murphy peers over Jasper's shoulder, "No don't pick that shit. Play some hip-hop."

            Jasper swats him away, "Excuse you. Who's the DJ here?" Murphy snorts, but doesn't move away.

            "No seriously why the lasers?" Miller asks Monty.

            Again, Jasper calls over from his laptop, "Because it's New Year's, Miller."

            "And New Year's requires two things," Monty jumps in.

            "Glitter and lasers!" Jasper finishes.

            "You better not have fucking _glitter_ in my house!" Bellamy yells, joining Miller on the couch.

            "What do you have against glitter?" Clarke sets down her arm full of knick knacks on the table next to the laptop.

            "It's stupid and literally never goes away."

            "He basically ruined my childhood with his no glitter policy." Octavia chimes in. She joins Jasper and Murphy over at the laptop, "Ooo, play that one."

            "How many time do I have to remind you people who the DJ is?!"

            "Someone kill the lights!" Monty yells and Clarke obliges. As soon as she flicks the switch off, the room is coated in darkness. "Let there be light!"

            There is a small click of a switch being turned and the room explodes in a fast pulsing light. There are a few groans of discomfort, before Monty apologizes and twists a dial so the light flashes at a slower pace. He places the strobe on the mantle of the fireplace and quickly crosses the room toward the stairs.

            "Let there be lasers!" He plugs the bigger box into the outlet and the room explodes into a galaxy of green and red dots that fly across the room in mini explosions. After tucking the machine between the stair railing, he rushes back across the room until he's standing by the Christmas tree.

            "And finally," He holds the last box, "let there be Technicolor!" He flicks a switch and  the room is covered in a slight hue of red that slowly blurs into a purple.

            With the combination of the lasers and lights, the once normal looking living room was transformed into a decent dance space worthy of any New Year's party. Octavia spins around in the center of the makeshift dance floor.

            "This is perfect!" She runs over to yanks Monty into a hug, "You're the freaking best!"

            Monty wraps an arm tightly around her waist, "I know."

            "But we're missing one thing." Jasper pouts.

            Everyone turns to look at him, "What?"

            "The music!" And with that, he slams down on the spacebar and the anthem to any dance party starts blaring from the speaker system next to the TV, Just Dance.

            Octavia throws her head back and laughs, "I freaking love this song!" She rushes over to Clarke and tugs on her hand. "Come on Clarke, you _have_ to dance with me."

            "Oh no," Clarke tries to yank her hand back, but Octavia literally drags her towards the center of the floor. "I did not sign up to make a fool of myself dancing."

            " _Please?_ "

            "Nope."

            "Oh come on! Live a little! Take the bull by the horns! Carpe the fucking Diem, Clarke!" Octavia punctuates the last part with a wiggle of her hips, "Dance with me!"

            Clarke rolls her eyes, but lets herself be pulled all the way into the center. "Fine. Just one dance!"

            "Wait for us!" Jasper and Monty call over the music as they scramble toward them.

            Soon Clarke is flanked on either side by her friends as they all dance wildly to the beat of Lady Gaga. Limbs are flailing all over the place and Clarke can't help but to throw her head back and laugh. She lets her body get lost in the rhythm as they all sway to and fro. She's not quite sure who starts singing first, but soon they are all belting out the lyrics to the song off-key and out of tune. Heat is rushing to their faces, and sweat slickens their necks, but they don't care. In this moment they are invincible. Clarke turns her head and sees the remaining boys standing off the side looking at them in amusement.

            "Oh no you don't!" Octavia calls out, "You four get in here too!"

            "I'm not drunk enough for this," Murphy mutters.

            "Well you better drink up buddy because you're _going_ to dance!"

            Murphy barely manages to take another swig from the bottle in his hand (how he managed to monopolize Clarke's vodka she will never know) before Octavia grabs his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor with her. Instead of letting him go, she uses his arm to spin herself with a laugh.

            "Come on Murphy! Let loose!" She yanks the bottle from his grasp and shoots back the liquid.

            "Fuck it." Murphy lets himself be pulled around the dance floor and Clarke swears she even sees his hips sway a little.

            Taking Octavia's cue, Jasper and Monty each reach someone to pull to dance. Monty shyly laces his fingers with Miller and gently tugs him toward Octavia and Murphy. Miller smiles and takes another sip from his beer before handing it off to Bellamy and following Monty to dance. Jasper, on the other hand, practically wraps his whole body around Lincoln's arm and tries to manhandle him onto the dance floor.

            "Come on big guy, I'm going to show you my mad moves!"

            Lincoln laughs and lets Jasper drag him if only so he can manage to swipe Octavia and force Murphy onto the monstrosity that was Jasper's dancing. Then it is just Bellamy and Clarke standing off to the side of their friends. Clarke gives him a wicked grin, but Bellamy just raises his hand in defense.

            "Oh no." He can't seem to keep the smile off his lips, "I don't dance."

            "Come on, Bell." She takes a step closer, "It'll be fun!"

            "Nope. No way."  He's shaking his head, but she is still walking forward. "No!" He laughs

            "I don't care."She grabs his hand and leans back, gently tugging him to the rest of their friends. "I'm not taking no for an answer."

            He rolls his eyes, but allows her to lead him into the throng of their friends. She lets his hand go and proceeds to get lost in the beat once more. There is a lot more limbs waving all over the place, but Clarke finds her rhythm quickly and sways in time with the rest of them. Bellamy is just standing there, his eyes intently watching her every movement as she circles around him.

            "I'm not sure standing around counts as dancing," Clarke teases.

            "Oh you want me to dance?" He cocks an eyebrow, "Well what kind of dance should I do?" His eyes sparkle with mischief. "I mean I know a lot of dances, Clarke. Like the sprinkler." He proceeds to bend an arm behind his head and straightens his other so it's level with his chin. Clarke throws her head back in laughter as he actually begins to dance.

            "I also know the wave."

            "Oh really?" Clarke laughs, "Let me guess; it goes a little something like this?" She moves her arms  so they mimic the motion of a wave.

            Bellamy laughs, "Actually, it goes a little like this!" He frames his face with his arms and wiggles his whole body from side to side.

            Clarke snorts and playfully pushes his shoulder, "Okay, but can you do the running man?" She begins to run in place bringing her arms out in front of her before pulling them back, as if she is rowing a boat.

            He nods his head thoughtfully, his smile still glued on his face, "I'll do you one better. I give you the Charlie Brown."

            Tucking his arms to his sides, he begins bouncing his shoulders up and down  while throwing his head to the opposite side. His curls bounce with the movement and the light causes his freckles to dance across his face. Clarke glances down to see his feet doing this weird shuffle thing and she just loses it. It's the kind of laugh that comes from deep in your stomach that makes your muscles hurt when it's over, but takes your breath away and tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. His smile only widens.

            "Oh you like that? Well I've got one better! Prepared to be blown away with the Time warp!"  He puts his hands on his hip and bends his knees inward and starts pelvic thrusting. "It'll drive you insane!"

            Clarke laughs and wipes away a stray tear, "I'm sure I'm probably missing the joke, but please just do that again so I can record it."

            Bellamy dramatically gasps and brings a hand to his chest, "You've never seen Rocky Horror Picture Show?!!!"

            "Guilty," she shrugs!

            "Unspeakable!" He reaches for her hand and laces their fingers together, "We're going to have a talk about your terrible movie habits," he twists their arms so she spins, sending her hair whirling all around her. "After we dance!"

            "Deal!"

 

* * *

 

            They continue on like that for so long, Clarke doesn’t even know how many songs have passed. Sometimes they spend the entire time showing off the most ridiculous moves they can think of and other times, they link their hands together and bounce and bob to their own rhythm, Bellamy spinning her whenever it suits his fancy. Perhaps it was the combination of the booze and exhaustion, or maybe it was something more Clarke’s still not sure she wants to name, but the next time Bellamy tugs her back, she lands right against his chest. The smart thing to do would have be to pull away, pretend it never happened and go back to bobbing and weaving to the music, but that is not what Clarke does. She presses herself closer to his chest. His heartbeat is racing through her body, or perhaps that is the bass vibrating from the floor to her feet. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck and it sends a shiver down her spine, even though her body is burning at the contact.

            There is a hitch in Bellamy's breath as she tries an experimental body roll, and he tightens his grips on her so her body is flush against his own. She tries another and then another until they are both moving in unison. Their joined hands slide across Clarke's stomach until it presses them impossible closer and she has to hook her free arm around his neck. Her fingers burry themselves in his curls, and she swears it's like something click inside of her. She pulls on his neck until his chin is practically touching her collarbone and she can feel his lips ghost her cheek. They stay like that for a while. The singer's voice (Sia her mind would remind her later) crooning through the speakers, but the words are lost on them. It's just her body pressed to his. His heartbeat echoing her own. Her eyes flutter open, not really sure when they close, and she sees Bellamy's staring back. The brown is almost entirely swallowed by a circle of black that she could get sucked into.

            Her body moves on her own, her head tilting just so, and the ring of black gets impossibly larger. Bellamy tightens his grip, and, for a moment, she thinks that he's going to pull away, but she feels the bob of his Adam's apple dip against her shoulder. Another shudder ripples through her and his eyes slant close and his face inches closers to her. Her own eyelids flutter shut in anticipation of his lips pressed sweetly against her own.

            Clarke's eyes are jostled open when Bellamy takes a staggering step forward.

            "My bad guys!" Jasper grins sloppily as he pats Bellamy's shoulder and turns his back to them. "Murphy I swear to God if you touch that arrow key again, I'm going to drop kick you! Ask Monty, I'll do it!"

            Jasper and Murphy bicker back and forth, but Clarke is not listening. She and Bellamy are still pressed too close and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Bellamy's eyes fall on hers again, but she can't meet them. She turns away.

            "I'm going to grab a glass of water." She steps out of his arms.

            "Yeah…" She can feel his eyes still on her skin, "Okay."

            She slips away and through the crowd of her friends, suddenly finding the space suffocating. A rush of cold air meets her when she manages to squeeze past the last of them. Not bothering to look back, she slips into the kitchen and yanks open the refrigerator door.

            "Clarke."

            She jumps at the sound of her name and turns to find Miller standing a few feet behind her with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

            "Miller you scared the shit out of me!" She clutches a hand to her chest and offers him a weak laugh.

            He returns it with a small smile, "Sorry."

            Silence.

            "Did you need something?" She asks after a moment.

            "I don't need to give you the whole hurt-him-talk do I?"

            "Excuse me?"

            "Come on Clarke!" Miller frowns, "I'm terrible at the talk. Don't make me."

            "I'm afraid you're going to have to back up for a second, Miller. Hurt who?"

            He rolls his eyes, "Bellamy of course."

            Clarke's heart stops, "Why would you say that?"

            "Seriously?" Miller lets loose a sigh like he can't believe he's standing here in the kitchen in the first place. "I saw you two on the dance floor, Clarke."

            "Oh."

            Miller snorts, "Well it's not like you two were subtle before that. I swear the sexual tension has been hanging in the air since I walked through the door."

            "I don't think-"

            "Oh come on, don't even start with that." He stands up straight and looks her in the eye, "Tell me to my face that nothing is going on between you to."

            She meets his eyes, "Nothing is going on."

            "But you want something to."

            She looks away.

            "That's what I thought." He pauses for a second, "Look Clarke, normally I don't get involved in this sort of shit—I mean I have my own love life to worry about— so I'm only going to say this once. Bellamy is crazy about you."

            Clarke's eyes snap to his again, "You don't know that."

            "Like hell I don't!" Miller snorts, "I've known the guy for years; I think I can tell when he's crushing on a girl. Like hardcore crushing."

            "But-"

            "Dude, Clarke. He gave you his _favorite_ shirt. He wouldn't even talk to me for a week after I accidentally tugging on the collar one time." He shakes his head as if remembering a fond memory, "Said something about stretching the thread. That's beside the point." Miller points a finger at her, "What are you going to do about it?"

            Clarke opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, not quite sure what to say. What _did_ she want to do about it? She finally settles on, "I don’t know."

            "You like him."

            "Yes."  

            The words leave her lips without a second thought, and suddenly there is a name to the thing she has been avoiding ever since she woke up this morning—maybe even ever since she walked through the door of the cabin. She likes Bellamy Blake. And that terrified her.

            "And he likes you. So what's the problem."

            _What if I'm not good enough? What if something bad happens to him? Just like Dad. Just like Wells. What if I'm too broken?_

            "What if you're wrong?"

            Because that is what would hurt more, letting the hope fester inside her that maybe—just maybe— that voice in her head is wrong, only for it to be right. She is not quite sure she can survive another break like that. She does not know if she could come back.

            "I'm not."

            "But-"

            "Clarke!" Miller grabs her shoulders and squeezes softly, "I'm not."

She opens her mouth, ready to tell him that she cannot take that chance— that her heart could not take that chance, when Bellamy's voice rings throughout her mind, stopping her dead  in her tracks.

            _Let's go home_.

            _Home_. The one thing she has been craving the most for the past 3 years. Ever since her dad, even more with Wells gone. She thought she had it with Finn, but it turns out he was someone else's home. Then she came here—albeit against her will— and she felt like… She felt like she belonged. Bellamy and Octavia opened their arms and let her into their little family and made her feel at home. A home she could always come back to. Did she really want to lose that? Her chest tightens. _No_.

            "Okay."

            "Okay?" Miller lets her go, "Okay what?!"

            "Okay, I'm going to do something about it."

            "Seriously? Jesus, I didn't think that would work."

            Clarke rolls her eyes, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

            "You two are impossible. Go." He shoves her in the direction of the living room, "Please go do something about his moping."

            Clarke looks over her shoulder, "He's moping?"

            "GO!"

            "I'm going sheesh! So pushy." He pushes her again and she laughs.

            When she enters the living room again, the music had changed to something with a deeper bass that made the whole room vibrate with it. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest and she can feel her palms slicken with sweat. After a quick scan, she notices Bellamy is no longer in among the group of people gyrating in the middle of the room. She deflates until Miller knocks her shoulder and points up at the second story balcony. Sure enough, Bellamy is leaning against the railing with his back towards them. His head is hanging over the railing and his profile is silhouetted by the pulsing lights.

            "Good luck," Miller whispers in her ear before disappearing back into the crowd.

            Clarke swallow and steels herself as she navigates to the stairs.

            "Five minutes to midnight!" Jasper yells over the music and their friends cheer.

            She reaches the second floor and just stands at the top of the steps. Bellamy has his eyes closed and his skin is shiny from the sweat that drips from his chin. He lost the sweater he was wearing earlier in the day when they first started drinking, so all he's left in is a black t-shirt that clings to his chest.

            "Bellamy."

            He opens his eyes, "Clarke," he stands straighter, "You're back."

            "Of course I am." She joins him at the railing and folds her arms against the guardrail. Her hair cascades down her neck, creating a curtain between them. "I only left to grab a drink."

            "Yeah." He says softly.

            She moves her hair to one side of her neck and stares out at the makeshift dance floor. She sees Jasper doing some ridiculous move that involves some sort of arm flailing and jumping. Monty and Miller have their heads thrown back in laughter and Miller spins Monty in and out of his arms. Octavia is not so subtly dancing too close to Lincoln and Murphy is bouncing on his feet just shy of them. They all look like they are having the time of their lives.

            "Our friends are idiots," she hears his voice rumble from beside her.

            "Yeah." She smiles, "But I'm happy they’re our idiots."

            "Me too."

            She looks at him then. "Bellamy?"

            "Yeah?"

            "I'm glad I came."

            His eyes soften and he turns around so they are both facing the same way. "Me too Clarke."

            Silence falls over them and Clarke can feel the heat radiating from his skin. She scoots closer so their arms are touching.

            "Who would have thought huh?" She lets her head hang for a second, "That we'd be standing here like this."

            He chuckles, "We did come a long way from that car ride."

            "Yeah." She turns to look at him. The lasers don't quite reach up this far, but his face is still illuminated slightly by the changing hues of red, pink and blue. Her eyes skate over his freckles and she spots the constellations hidden in the random specks. "I used to hate you."

            He stiffens, his shoulders squaring and a muscle ticks in his jaw, but it's not the same as if he is angry or annoyed. It's something else entirely. It's nerves.

            "And now?" His eyes turn to meet hers. An impossible brown clashing against her blue.

            "Now?" She swallows and her eyes dart down to his lips. "Now I…"

            "Yeah?" He's leaning in.

            "Now I.."

            She can feel his breath tickling her cheek and her ears are throbbing with the drumming of her heart.

            "Yes, Clarke?" She can practically feel his lips move against her own.

            "I-"

            A phone shrills loudly in the space between them, and she can feel it vibrating violently against her calf (Boots are great phone holder when you don't have pockets). Her eyes automatically fly to the noise, but Bellamy's hand shoots out to grab her arm.

            "Ignore it."

            And God she wants to.

            "It could be important."

            "It's probably Finn." He says venomously.

            She pulls the phone out from her boot and eyes the caller ID. "No, I don't know the number."

            "Then ignore it."

            "I can't." She says sadly. Too many times did she ignore a call that lead to losing someone she cares about. "I'm sorry."

            Bellamy's eyes soften as if he could read the thoughts straight from her mind. "Don't be." He squeezes her gently, "I'll be right here after it's done."

            She gives him a smile and a small squeeze back before she turns away to answer the phone.

            "TWO MINUTES!" Jasper yells.

            Clarke hits the accept button, "Hello?"

            "Hello yes is this Clarke Griffin?"

            "This is she. Who is asking?"

            "Hello, yes, this is Officer Pike from Polis Central Police Station."

            Clarke's brows furrow in confusion, "How can I help you?"

            "Do you know a Finn Collins?"

            "Yes. I do. Why, what has he done?"

            "M'am, is there any way for you to make it down to the station tonight?"

            "Why? What did Finn do?"

            "M'am-"

            "No. Listen either you tell me what this call is about or I'm hanging up right this minute."

            There is a pause on the other end of the line before the man sighs heavily.

            "M'am I'm afraid there has been an accident."

            Clarke freezes and she turns to look at Bellamy, who is watching her intently with a worried look on his face.

            "M'am, I'm afraid he did not make it."

            The phone slips from her fingers and clatters to the floor, just as the room below erupts into joyous screams.

            "Happy New Years!!!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, don't kill me. I tagged it Slow Burn for a reason 
> 
> Come rant on my [tumblr](awfullybashful.tumblr.com) about how much you hate cliffhangers and what a terrible person I am. I promise I don't bite :)
> 
> As always your comments and kudos are amazing and push me to keep writing! Love you all and have an awesome day.


	12. Heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts of her past come clawing back to the surface as Clarke's whole world comes crashing down and she's left shaken and battered in the aftermath.
> 
> This chapter is where TCIOA earns its angst tag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was told by my Beta that I should add a trigger warning for this chapter. I don't talk about anything in explicit detail, but I do mention some powerful images that could be triggering for Suicide. So you've been warned. 
> 
> Another thing, I once mentioned that if this story had a villain it would be Abbey. I was sorely mistaken. The biggest villain of this story is Clarke's own mind and it's a nasty one at that.

"M'am, I'm afraid he did not make it."

Her phone is slipping through her fingers, her body too rendered in shock to maintain the slight grip on the slick sides of the little device. She knows it has to hit the ground (gravity dictates that everything that goes up must come down), but funny enough, she does not hear the crash; all she hears is the ringing. The ringing and the man's words.

_He did not make it. He did not make it. He did not make it._

Finn was _gone_. Her mind did not know how to process the information. The man's words just bleed through her mind, filling every crack and crevice with the simple fact that the boy who had broken her heart was gone. The same boy who had pieced it to back together the first time was gone. He was just _gone_.

She does not even notice Bellamy standing in front of her until his hands are on her arms, his fingers digging bruises into the skin. He shakes her and her eyes snap to his. Worry etches the planes of his face, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes swimming with fear, and his lips curved into a slight frown. Her eyes drop to his lips and— sure enough— they are moving rapidly, but she cannot quite make out the words. (She thinks it could be her name.) She tries to listen , but his voice is drowned by the high pitched whine roaring in her ears. Everything else just fades into white noise.

_He did not make it. He did not make it. He did not make it._

Another shake and his fingers dig deeper, causing a sharp pain to shock her system. She does not think he means to hurt her, but she's grateful for the pain anyways. It grounds her enough to pick out the snippets of his words. He is saying her name over and over again, but it comes out muffled as if she is hearing it through a glass wall. His hands lift to her face and he cradles her cheeks ever so softly, thumbs wiping away the tears she did not even know were rolling down.

_He did not make it_.

The words snap her back into sound, almost as if someone flipped a switch and suddenly music was pounding through her skull and the bass rumbling her feet. Yet, Bellamy's voice pierces through it all.

"Clarke, _please_." His voice breaks, "Please, _please_ say something."

"Bellamy?"

"Oh thank god." He crushes her against his chest and tangles a hand in her hair. Her fists ball into the fabric of his shirt and she buries her face against him. Sobs rack through her body and her breath hitches in her throat. His hand strokes her hair through each shudder while his other wraps around her, holding as close as their bodies will allow. (She thinks it may be the only thing keeping her together).

"What's wrong Clarke? Did something happen? Are you hurting?" His words mash together, panic and worry making his questions race to get out of his mouth first.

She pulls away slightly, just enough to angle her head to meet his eyes. "He's gone."

Bellamy's eyes widen and she can feel the muscles tense beneath her touch. "Who, Clarke? Who's gone?"

"Fi-" Bile rushes up her throat and she forcibly clamps a hand over her mouth to keep it from spilling out. She wrenches herself out of his arms and bolts down the hall. She barely registers Bellamy's voice calling after her.

Bursting through the door, she just manages to throw open the lid before her stomach empties itself into the porcelain bowl. She can feel the abdominal muscles clench around the organ with each heave. The acidic content burn through her esophagus, coating her lips with a bitter tang. When the heaves cease, her body shaking in the aftermath, she slumped against the toilet, all her energy having been sapped away until all she feels is an ache deep from within her bones. A hand gently runs up and down her spine, while another gather the hair off her forehead and neck (which have slickened with sweat). Her stomach heaves again, but there is nothing left for it to empty so it just clenches over and over again while her hands brace herself against the lid.

"That's it," Bellamy's voice rumbles from behind her in a soothing hum, "Just let it all out. You're okay." His hand never stops rubbing the length of her spine, "You're okay."

She's not quite sure if he's saying it for her benefit or his. (She guesses in the end that it doesn't matter.)

_He did not make it. He did not make it. He did not make it. I'm so sorry honey, but he's gone._

The man's voice bleeds into that of her mother's and suddenly she's not curled up around the toilet, but sitting in the middle of the Dropship.

 

* * *

 

She is at the Dropship, the smell of coffee and the stale scent of booze lingering in the air and the floor mysteriously sticky beneath her sneaker. She is posted up at the bar with her sketchbook splayed before her on her knee and her phone long forgotten, face-down and shoved off to the side on the counter next to her (now empty) mug. The device has long since silenced from the constant buzzing (no doubt coming from Wells trying to reach her). She's got her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she smudges together two lines with her pinkie. Once they are blurred to her satisfaction, she pulls the piece away to admire the finishing touches.

It was her midterm for her art class; everyone has to choose a moment from their lives and recreate it onto a page in any medium of their choosing. Clarke had chosen a photograph from one of the worst days of her life: her father's funeral. It was a picture of her and Wells all dressed in black with their backs to the camera. His arm slung around her waist and her head resting on his shoulder. The photo was black and white, having been clipped from the newspaper years ago, but Clarke still remembers the day in vivid color. She remembers Wells' whispers tickling against her ear as he details the wonders of a world beyond the sky. She remembers him describing the colors of the galaxy and how they are so vivid the human eye could not decipher them all. He described how one day he'd take her to see them herself because if anyone could paint the universe it would be her. Of course in the photo all that lay before them were empty fields and headstones, but even now she can still see the stars glimmering just beyond her reach.

She decided to do the piece in a mixture of charcoal and watercolors (a kind of tip of the hat to where she began and where she's ended up), with the charcoal composing their backs and the watercolors depicting the galaxy behind them. She runs a finger (one of the few non-stained ones) over the dried paint. Her eyes flicker over to her phone and she is torn— not for the first time— between picking it up and calling Wells and keeping her pride.

It was stupid and petty— she _knew_ that, but could not help but feel the sting of staring at her computer for an hour waiting for him to pick up on the other line. It had been happening more and more lately. For months they would never miss a single call, but now she had trouble getting him to answer her texts. (He missed three calls already, not including the one he missed today.) Her finger brushes against the rough texture of the page where the paint distorted it slightly. All she wanted to do was show him the galaxy his words inspired.

"Oh Goddess." Anya's voice pulls her from her thoughts.

"What?" She turns to set her sketchbook down and notices Anya frozen in her spot, mid-wipe on the counter and her eyes fixated on something above Clarke's shoulder.

In lieu of an answer, Anya nods her heads toward the television mounted just to Clarke’s left. Clarke follows her line of sight to see the tv turned to a newscast. In a bright red banner, the words SCHOOL SHOOTING were plastered across the screen. Clarke’s stomach drops and her mouth runs dry. Anya reaches for the remote under the counter and turns the volume up. The rich baritone voice of the news anchor fills the quickly quieting café.

“We have reporter Jenna Susko here at the scene. Jenna are you there?” The screen switches over to a young woman with a microphone gripped tightly in her hand and a crowd of people standing behind her with their backs turned.

“Yes I am, Whit.” The woman answers, “Earlier this evening, the shooter, a thirteen year old girl, walked into the campus library and opened fire on the students inside. Police have not released any information on who the shooter is nor about her motive for doing so. The number of people injured in the incident is also unkno- Wait. What’s that?”

She raises a hand to her ear, “This just in; there have been five fatalities and nearly a dozen injured. There is still no word on the condition of those injured, but they are being moved to Cedars Sinai Medical Center for treatment. This has been reporter Jenna Susko with NBC news. Back to you Whit.”

“What college are they talking about?”Clarke tears her eyes from the screen and looks at Anya, whose jaw is taut with anger.

“I don’t remember. Some school in Southern California.”

Clarke’s blood freezes. _Southern California? Wells goes to school in Southern California._ She tries to shake the feeling of dread. _Still, there are a lot of schools, right? It couldn’t be his._

The screen cuts back to the news anchor, his gaze directed straight into the camera and his expression somber and grim.

“It is a sad day here in America, folks. This afternoon at about 2 o’clock, a shooter walked into the library at Charlotte University in Southern California and opened fire on the students housed inside the building. There have been a confirmed five fatalities and at least a dozen more injured. Those injured are currently being transported-”

The screen floods with pictures of the university. Police tape borders the green lawns of the quad and flashes or red and blue glint in the background as the camera pans around. The anchor’s voice begins to drift off, replaced with the rushing of blood in Clarke’s ears. Her pencil clatters to the floor as she scrambles for her phone. The coffee cup crashes to the floor, shattering to tiny pieces in her haste.

“Jesus, Clarke! What the-” Anya pauses taking in the panic look stricken across Clarke’s face.

“Wells.” Clarke quickly types in her passcode, her eyes flicking to Anya frantically. “Wells goes to Charlotte.”

Focusing back on her screen, she is greeted by missed call notifications. 5 missed calls. All from Wells. She redials the number as fast as her fingers will allow her. The phone goes straight to voicemail. She hangs up and dials again. And again and again. No answer.

“Damn it Wells!” Clarke tears the phone from her ear, ready to redial again, when she sees three voicemail messages waiting for her. 

Why she decides to open them, she cannot say, but something in the back of her mind niggles at the sight of them. Hesitantly, she opens them up. They are from Wells (though she is not surprised. He is the only one who will ever leave her a voicemail instead of texting her back) starting from about noon and the last one time-stamped at just past two. She swears she can feel her heart stop in her chest. Her fingers hover over the first one at noon.

_An hour after you were supposed to have your call,_ her mind reminds her.

She taps the play button and raises her phone to her ear once more.

“Hey Clarke,” Wells’ voice fills the receiver. He sounds a bit out of breath. “I’m super sorry about missing our Skype call. You won’t believe what happened!” He chuckles, “Call me back, yeah? I need to tell you about my misadventure. It involves a skunk, a girl, and my way too expensive textbooks. Love you.”

The message clicks off and Clarke stares at the screen, a feeling of guilt filling her stomach. She clicks the next one labeled at one.

“You’re mad at me aren’t you?” He sighs, “Look, Clarke, I know I’ve been kind of a flake lately, but I’m really trying.” He laughs half-heartedly, “Who knew Poli-sci would be so demanding huh? Miss you. Call me.”

The message ends. She hits the next one at 2:15, right about the time of the shooting. With a shaky grip, she raises the phone.

“Still mad I see. Well lucky for you, I’m nothing if not persistent, perhaps as stubborn as you are. You can’t ignore me forever, Clarkey. Unless you’re not ignoring me and have been kidnapped… or asleep…You better not be kidnapped. We agreed to no kidnappings, remember? I’m too far away to pull off a daring rescue. They’d have you drugged and shipped out of the country before I could even make it past airport security. Besides, I’m not nearly as cool as Liam Neeson to pull off a _Taken_ -” There is a loud bang that she unmistakably identifies as a gunshot, even with the slight distortion of the phone. 

She feels the blood draining from her body, a chill creeping over her in its place.

“Holy shit!” Wells’ voice cuts back in, “Clarke? Oh my god, I think someone is shooting up the library.”

Another bang.

“What the fuck. Oh god. It’s just a little girl, Clarke.”

Three more shots.

“Jesus!”

Rustling fills the receiver, followed by Wells cursing softly beneath his breath. When his voice returns, it is hardly an audible whisper.

“Listen, Clarke. In case anything happens, just know that you are my best friend in the entire universe alright? I’m sorry we haven’t spoken really these past few weeks and I miss you. _God_ , I miss you so much!”

Her cheeks slicken with tears and a whimper escapes past her lips. She clamps a hand over her mouth to prevent any more.

“You’re my best friend and I love-” His breath catches and there is a pause. When he returns, he’s not talking to her. “Please-” 

The next bang is louder than the rest and it rings crystal clear in her ears. Probably because she can feel this one rip through her chest. There is a crash and the message cuts out a second later. 

She slowly lowers the phone, letting her arm just dangle at her side. Her legs quiver before collapsing beneath her weight. Wells got shot. Shot and possibly killed. Her chest tightens and it gets harder to breathe. The last thing she had as family and he could be gone. The phone in her hand buzzes and shocks her out her reprieve and into action.

“Wells?!”

There is a long pause before the voice on the other end speaks up, “No, honey. It’s your mother.”

“Mom?” Clarke pulls away the phone and sure enough the it is number of the hospital her mother works at (she’s long since memorized the ten digits from her childhood) stares back at her. A flash of anger races through her. “Not now, mother. I need to call Wells again.”

“That’s why I’m calling, honey.” Clarke’s blood runs cold and she can feel her chest tighten further. “When I saw the news and they said the shooting was at Charlotte, I had to-” her voice cracks and there is another pause.

“I called Cedars Sinai, Clarke. At first they wouldn’t tell me anything, but after I explained that I was his godmother and that his father was out of the country-” She pauses.

“What?”

Nothing.      

“What did they say?!”

“I'm so sorry honey, but he's gone.”

Then she really could not breathe. Her vision blurs and Clarke could feel her lungs restricting in their efforts to pull in air. Her heartbeat is in her ears and the words are on repeat.

_He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone._

“Clarke? Honey?” Her mother’s voice panics over the phone.

“Clarke!” Anya calls out inches from her face, but the words sound miles away.

“Clarke, say something, _please!_ ” Another voice calls out. This time it is male and seems out of place, yet so familiar.

“Clarke!”

Someone is shaking her, but Anya is behind the counter grabbing a glass of water.

“ _Clarke!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Clarke!”     

Clarke blinks and gone is the scent of stale liquor and lingering coffee and in its place is the smell of pine and the sour smell of bile. Bellamy is at her side, hovering over her hunched form, one hand on her shoulder.

“Bellamy?” Her voice is hoarse and she can taste the acidity of her tongue.

Bellamy visibly sags, “You have got to stop doing that to me, Clarke. My heart can’t take it.”

“Oh god, Bellamy!” Reality crashes over her and she can feel the tears start to prickle at the corners of her eyes.

“What is it Clarke?” His grip tightens softly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I- Finn-” she wipes hopelessly at her eyes, “Finn’s-”

_Is there any way for you to make it down to the station tonight?_ The words halt her train of thought and her mouth shuts with an audible click. _This is Offer Pike from Polis Central Police Station_. _Polis Central Police Station_. _Polis._

Polis. She needs to get to Polis. If she remembers correctly it should only be an hour from school. More so from here.

“I need to go.” She says abruptly, shoving herself away from the toilet and scrambling for the door.

Bellamy, shocked by the sudden bout of energy, does not have the chance to say anything until she’s nearly to the stair.

“Wha- wait, Clarke!” He calls after her, rushing to catch up, “Where are you going? What’s happening?”

“I’m sorry,” She throws over her shoulder, “I just need to go!”

She takes the steps as fast as her feet will carry her only to be stopped by Jasper, Monty, and Octavia blocking her way down, worried expressions plastered on all of their faces.

“What’s going on?” Monty starts.

“Yeah, we heard shouting and then Bellamy was running after you-” Jasper picks up, but Clarke pushes past them.

“It’s just- I- I need to leave!” She is rushing down the final few steps and grabbing her purse where she had abandoned it near the front door.

“Clarke!” Her friends call after her. She doesn’t stop, throwing the door open.

“Clarke!” This time it’s Bellamy’s voice and it’s accompanied by the sound of his feet pounding after her down the steps.

She rips open her purse and begins digging for her keys as she races down the driveway. By the time Bellamy makes it to the door, she’s already pulling out into the street. The last thing she sees is his silhouette in the doorway.

 

* * *

 

She knows she should not be driving— her mind a mixed cocktail of alcohol and a crippling sense of panic— but the need to get to Polis, the need for answers, outweighs everything. Her hands are gripped tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white and prominent and her hands pale and cold from the lack of proper circulation. The radio is off so the only thing she can hear is the sound of the wind slapping against her car as she zips down the empty road. The officer’s words are stuck on repeat, but this time they are tinged with more flashes of her past.

_He didn’t make it_.

Finn’s bright smile. His arm slung wrapped around her waist. The soft caress of his lips on her cheek. Sunlight hitting his sleeping face. Feeling safe. Feeling destroyed.

_I'm so sorry honey, but he's gone._

Grubby hands fisted together, one dark the other light. Late nights on the roof, stars swirling past over their heads. First kisses. Warm laugh. Even warmer eyes. Promises. Breaking those promises. Black dresses and even darker ashes.

_I love you too, Sweetheart. I love you so much._

A lone body hanging from the ceiling. 

A car swerves in front of her and Clarke yanks her car to the right to avoid a collision. Adrenaline floods her system sending her heart racing in her chest and causing her body to tense and jitter with action. At the same time her mind reels and the panic comes flooding to the surface. Tears start pouring down her cheeks, blurring her vision, and the blood rushes so loud in her ears, she fears she is going to go deaf. She pulls over into the shoulder and slams her car into park. The sobs take over almost immediately, leaving her pressed against her arms and the steering wheel as her body shakes. 

_Dead. Didn’t make it. Suicide. Polis._

Her dad, Wells, Finn, who’s next? How many people that she loves will die?

 

She waits until the sobs are done trembling through her frame and the tear have dried into lines on her cheeks before picking her head up off the steering wheel. She needs to get to Polis. Wiping the remnants of her tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist, she switches the car back into drive and slowly eases her way back onto the highway (Not that there is much need to be careful when the highway is empty this late at night save a car or two). At least with a task at hand, she can focus on that rather than the ghosts that linger over her shoulders and plagues her thoughts.

 

* * *

 

When she pulls up to the police station , it is a little past two. The buzz of alcohol had faded to a dull thrum, but the sense of panic had only faded to the background, still lurking on the edges of her mind and waiting to strike on a moment’s whim. So she waits a few more minutes in her car just staring at the building hoping that given enough time, the panic will settle (She doesn’t have much hope of it doing so). It was a sharp contrast to the world behind it, other building long since closed for the night with their lights shut off and an eerie silence lingering in its presence. Her eyes linger on the sign painted on the face of the building, its block letter spelling out: Polis Central Police Station. The longer she stares, the more the words blur together and form New York City Police Department.

 

* * *

 

She is staring at the faded lettering on the wall on the opposite side of the room. The tail of the Y in “City” having chipped away to a stub making the letter look more like a “v.” Clarke does not even remember how she got here. One moment she is in her room trying to finish up some sketches and the next, she is in the middle of Manhattan sitting in the 16th precinct waiting for someone to tell her exactly what is going on. Vaguely, she remembers the officer saying something about her father over the phone and needing her to come down to the station— her stomach rolling with what could be so bad they couldn’t tell her over the phone— but other than that, everything's a blur. She looks down at the phone clutched in her lap. She still has not heard anything from her mother, despite the four voicemails and numerous texts she had left.

_Must be caught up in a surgery or something_ , she thinks to herself.

_Or she just doesn’t care_ , another, darker, part of her thinks.

“Miss Griffin?” A man asks as he approaches where she is seated. “My name is officer Shumway. I was one of the detectives assigned to the case pertaining to your father.”

“Well isn’t that _nice_.” She sneers, her defenses going up automatically, “Tell me officer Shumway, haven’t you bothered me and my family enough?”

Shumway raises a brow and crosses his arms over his chest, “How old are you, kid? Where is your mother?”

“Can’t make it. I’ll ask again, why am I here, Officer?”

She was getting sick of his game, of everyone’s game when it came to her father. They always treated her as their lesser just because she was younger. Little did they know it was _her_ who called all the lawyers for her father’s trial. That is was _her_ who sat up in the middle of the night looking through her father’s files looking for _anything_ to prove his innocence. That is was _her_ , and her alone, who had to travel 150 miles just to visit her father in Rikers.

Now it is Shumway’s turn to go on the defensive. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say with a minor.” An over-confident smirk graces his face, “Looks like you’ll just have to wait until your mother is free.”

Her eyes grow cold and she thrust her phone towards him, “Would _you_ like to call her? Because I guarantee that you will get the same answer I have been getting for the last hour it took me to get here, which will be nothing. And, if by some miracle, you _do_ get her on the phone, she will simply tell you that she wants nothing more to do with my father.”

She arches a brow of her own, “Now, are you going to tell me what this is about, or am I going to have to go to your captain and find out through them?”

The smirk drops from his face instantly and is replaced with a look of annoyance and undisguised anger. “Now you listen here-”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Clarke reaches out to stop a passing by officer, “Excuse me, can you please direct me to your captain?”

The officer gives her a quizzical look, eyes flickering between Clarke and Shumway, before shrugging and pointing towards a glass door towards the back of the room.

“The Captain is just through those doors, Miss. Just knock and I’m sure he will be able to help you out with your, uh,” her eyes dart back to Shumway who is now red with anger, “problem.”

“Thank you.” Clarke rises from her seat and nods her thanks to the officer. She walks over to the office without a single glance back in Shumway’s direction, despite the protests he sputters from behind her.

When she reaches the door, she knocks firmly on the glass and waits until a voice calls her in. The captain is a young woman with insanely curly hair and a soft expression on her face. She beckons for Clarke to sit down in one of the available chairs before her.

“I’m Captain Rigs, but you can call me Luna.” She offers Clarke a smile, “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Captain.” Clarke seats herself in one of the chairs, “I’m here because one of your detectives called me in about my father, but no one will tell me anything. I was wondering if you would be able to shed some light on the situation.”

Luna folds her hands on the desk, “And your father would be?”

“Jake Griffin.”

Luna’s smile drops, “Oh.”

“Oh? What does ‘oh’ mean?”

She sighs and leans back in her chair, “I assume you are not Abigail Griffin.”

“My mother is _indisposed_ at the moment, I’m afraid.” Clarke grits her teeth, “Look I just want to know what is going on with my father, so can you please just tell me?”

Luna looks at her for a long moment, silences falling over the office. The only sound Clarke can hear the clock ticking away the seconds from where it hangs on the wall. Still Luna says nothing, just stares at Clarke. Clarke does not move under her gaze. Eventually, Luna sighs and reaches for a file on her desk. She picks up the manila folder and peruses the pages.

“Jake Griffin, 42. Charged and found guilty of selling extremely dangerous and  highly confidential company secrets to the black-market.” Luna’s eyes find hers again, “Married to one Abigail Griffin, 39, and has one child, Clarke Griffin, 16. I take it you are Clarke, yes? ”

Clarke nods and she continues.

“Well Clarke, I can see you’re quite mature for your age, no doubt because of the growing up you had to do when dealing with your father’s mess and being your father’s sole supporter since his incarceration.” She flips a few pages over the top of the folder. “Tell me, when was the last time you talked with your father?”

Clarke feels a chill race up her spine, but she does not dare shiver, “I saw him yesterday, why? What is going on?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this gently, Clarke, so I’m just going to say it plainly.” Luna flips the pages back and closes the folder, “Your father passed away last night in his jail cell.”

“What?” The world stops spinning and Clarke feels as if the floor has been yanked from out beneath her feet. That could not be right, she just saw him alive and well.

_But was he really well?_ The voice from earlier whispers, _What about that hug? You knew something was off. Why didn’t you say anything, Clarke? Why did you ignore it?_

“H-how?” She asks.

“Do you really want to know?” Luna arches an eyebrow, “You can’t unhear it once it’s said.”

“Tell me.”

“Suicide. He took his sheet off his bed in the middle of the night, made a noose, and hung himself.” Luna says it so matter-of-factly, it makes Clarke’s blood run cold.

“What? But he would never-” _Oh God that hug_. Clarke smacks a hand to her mouth horrified. _He was hugging her goodbye._

Luna softens, “I’m sorry for your loss, Clarke.” She rises from her seat and skirts around the desk to lay a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, “Is there any way at all to contact your mother? I think it would be best if she was here with you and there are some matters I need to discuss pertaining to what happens next.”

Clarke shakes her head, “S-she’s not picking up her phone. She must be stuck in a surgery. ”

_          He was saying goodbye and you didn’t notice. _

Luna nods her head thoughtfully, “I’m going to give the hospital a call anyway and see if someone can patch me through to her, okay? I would like you to wait in here until I can get in contact with her okay?”

Clarke nods her head mutely, her mind reeling too much to form a verbal answer. Luna squeezes her shoulder and disappears through the door, letting it close with an audible click behind her.

_         How could you not notice? _

 

* * *

 

She is snapped out of her thoughts when a sharp tap sounds from her window. Startled by the noise, she turns to see a young man dressed in a police uniform standing outside her car.

“Miss? Are you okay? Can I help you?”

Clarke rolls down her window, “I’m here to see Officer Pike. He said Fi-” she pauses, swallowing down a knot in her throat, “He said he wanted me to come down. Something about an accident?”

“Oh.” The officer’s face darkens, “He thought you might come by.”

Her eyes fall to her lap where she twists her hands together, “Yeah…”

A small pause.

“Well, uh, if you like, ” he offers her a tentative smile, “I can escort you his way.”

“Thank you, ” she returns his smile habitually, “I would appreciate that Officer…”

“Briller. And it’s no problem, Miss.” He opens the door for her and steps out of the way, “Wouldn’t want you walking across the parking lot this late anyhow.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is small as she rolls up the window and reaches for her purse from the passenger seat. He waits for her patiently as she steps out of the car and closes the door for her. They manage to walk through more than half the parking lot in silence when he finally speaks up.

“You’re doing me a favor anyhow,” he leans in a bit closer, his voice lowering to a mock whisper, “This place gives me the creeps at night. All the dark buildings and dingy street lights?” He shudders, “No thank you. It’s just asking for a ghost to show up.”

A small smile tugs on the corners of her lips, “A cop who believes in ghosts?”

“We all gotta have something,” he laughs, reaching for the door and holding it open for her. “After you,” he gestures with a hand.

She smiles (this one feeling a bit more genuine) and walks into the building. He leads her up a flight of stairs and around a corner to a room with a huge desk in the middle. Another officer, this time a woman, sits behind the desk with a phone pressed to her ear.

“Hey Monroe,” he greets.

“Ah, Briller! Just the man I was looking for.” She lowers the phone back down and gives him a bright grin, “Your boy toy is on line two for you.”

Officer Briller turns beet red as he shyly rubs the back of his neck. “He must just be getting off his shift.” He turns to Clarke, “Pike is just through the archway at the right, Miss. He’s the first office to your left. You can’t miss it.”

Clarke nods her head in thanks and quickly ducks through the archway Briller pointed out. The archway opens up to the precinct’s bullpen where desks litter the otherwise empty room. True to the officer’s words, an office sits just to her left. She knocks on the glass window of the door and waits patiently for permission to enter.

“Come in.”

“Officer Pike?”

The man looks up from the paperwork on his desk and raises an eyebrow. “Clarke Griffin?” She nods her head.

He offers a sad smile and gestures for her to take a seat in the chair in front of his desk. “Please sit down. I can’t imagine it’s been an easy drive for you.”

She sits down wordlessly, purse settled on her lap and her fingers tangled tightly in the leather strap. He takes a moment to study her, but she knows what he sees when he does. He sees a college girl, her face young but her eyes far off like she has seen too much death, blonde hair tousled as if she ran her fingers through it too many times (she did), eyes rimmed red from all the crying, and her whole body taut like a wire pulled too thin.

He sighs and leans back in his chair, “Well Miss Griffin I wasn’t so sure I’d be seeing you tonight. It sounded like quite the party when I called. Not to mention, I lost you for a bit after I told you the news about Mr. Collins.”

_He didn’t make it._ Her fingers tighten around the strap.

“Yeah, the news came as a bit of a shock. I can’t say I handled it as well as I could have.”

His face softens, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She flinches at the words. _Was Finn really hers to lose?_

“Thank you.” The words taste bitter on her tongue.

“Still I’m glad you made it here in once piece. Your friends called back after you had left the house. You gave them quite the scare it seems.”

Flashes of Bellamy’s face etched in worry, his hands rubbing up and down her spine, his silhouette in her rearview mirror. She shakes her head free of the thoughts.

“You said there was some sort of accident?” She redirects, “That Finn was involved in?”

“Yes, there was an accident.”

She waits for him to continue.

“May I ask your relation to Mr. Collins?” He asks instead.

“I’m his girl-”Clarke cuts herself off. She was not his girlfriend anymore. “Friend. I’m his friend.” Even that sounds like a lie. What _was_ she to Finn anymore? A friend? A scorned loved? A distraction? She’s not so sure anymore.

Pike sighs, “I thought as much. Listen, normally we first try to notify the next of kin, so do you know if Mr. Collins had any family nearby? A parent perhaps, or maybe a sibling or aunt?”

Clarke shakes her head, “No. Finn was an only child raised by his grandmother after his parents passed away in a car crash.” She is struck with a cruel sense of irony, “She died a couple years back. He was a ward of the state for a while after that until he was 18.”

“So no other family?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

_Liar. Finn had Raven. Raven was family, more-so than you were. She should be here, not you._

Another sigh, “I see.” He shuffles around a few pages, “How long have you and Mr. Collins been _friends_?”

Clarke bristles at his tone, “I met him about two years ago.”

“That’s a short time to know someone and put them as an emergency contact.”

“We were each others.” She bites back.

“I don’t mean to offend, Ms. Griffin, just trying to figure out how to go about this.”

“Look,” Clarke pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling the tears pricked behind her eyes, “It’s been a long night, okay? Can you please just tell me what happened? How did Finn-” She cuts herself off, not quite trusting herself to say it yet.

He watches her as she tries to maintain her composure, before breaking. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, wiping away at a stray tear. He waits until she’s calmed down enough before continuing.

“There was a head-on collision on interstate 118 tonight at about 11 o’clock. Mr. Collins was the only one in the vehicle, but the other car contained a family of 5.” His jaw tightens, “There were no survivors.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, “Oh my god.”

“We can’t be entirely sure until the tox-screen comes in, but-”

“Tox-screen? Why are you doing a toxicology screening?”

Pike’s eyes find hers in a hard stare, “Because M’am, all evidence points to this being an incident of drunk driving.”

The air leaves her lungs at once, “Drunk driving? Finn would nev-”

_Are you sure about that?_

She clamps her mouth shut.

_How would you know if you’ve been ignoring him, hmm? Finn was drinking pretty heavily that day back at the Drop Ship. Who knows how far you’ve pushed him._

“Like I said, we won’t know for sure until the report comes in. I just thought it best to prepare you for the worst because if this is a case of drunk driving, sometimes the victims’ families like to go looking for someone to blame.”

“I-” Her voice cracks and she had to pause, wiping away a few more stray tears, “Thank you for telling me, Officer Pike.”

“It’s no problem, Miss Griffin.” He rises from his chair and she does the same. “Now if it’s not too much trouble, and you’re up to it, we need to talk about what happens next. There is some paperwork that needs to be filled out before we can release the body to you.”

_The body. Finn’s body._

“Yes, of course.” Her body is on autopilot as Pike leads her out of the office and back towards the archway where Officer Monroe is typing away at a computer.

“Monroe.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Can you get Clarke here the paperwork to release Finn Collin’s body to her once the coroner is done with it?”

“Yes, sir!” She turns back to typing away at the computer and Pike lays a hand on Clarke’s shoulder.

“I’m going to grab Mr. Collin’s personal effects, but Officer Monroe here is going to take care of you while I’m gone.” He squeezes her shoulder when she nods her understanding and goes back the way they came from.

Clarke waits in silence while Monroe types away.

“And there we go,” she hits another key and the printer wheezes to life, “Just give it a few seconds to print all these pages and you’ll be good to go.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Clarke is beginning to hate these words again. “Especially on a night like tonight. Nothing worse than losing a loved one on a holiday.”

Clarke opens her mouth to say her perfunctory thanks, when they are interrupted by another voice.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” They both turn to see a young woman march over to where they stand. Clarke’s stomach drops with recognition.

“Raven.”

She looks a little worse for wear, dark circles rimming her bloodshot eyes, her once sleek and shiny hair, dull and knotted in a messy ponytail, and her slight frame hunched over like she’s trying to hold in all the pieces of herself. Yet, even in her devastation (Clarke can’t think of any other word to describe what she is seeing) the woman radiates power and control.

“Raven,” she repeats, “I was- what are- how do you-”

“I know who you are,” she spits, “You’re the bitch who was sleeping with my boyfriend while I was studying abroad for a year.”

“No! It wasn’t-”

“Save it! What the fuck are you doing _here_?” Raven advances one step at a time until Clarke is forced to take a step back.

“I got- they called me saying Finn was in some sort of an accident and oh god,” She clamps a hand down to hold back the rising hysterics.

_He didn’t make it. Head on collision. Incident of drunk driving._

“He didn’t make it, Raven. Oh god, I’m so sorry! He didn’t make it.” She breaks down, letting her answer come out between small sobs.

Raven stops her advancement, her body stock still as she processes Clarke’s words. Tears spill over her eyelids and track down her face.

“No,” she whispers.

Her eyes snap to Clarke’s and she sees a rage ignite in the girl. It is the only warning Clarke gets before she is being tackled to the ground and her head smacks into the tiled floor. The world spins off its axis and the only thing Clarke registers is the weight of Raven on her abdomen and the blood rushing to her head. When the world rights itself, it is only to see Raven’s fist come flying into her right cheek. Her face snaps with the momentum only to be forced back in the opposite direction when another blow lands on her left cheek. Raven’s fist raises for a third blow, but this time Clarke catches her eyes. She can taste copper on her tongue and teeth, her head is pounding, adrenaline is rushing in her ears, and the world is a spinning blur except for Raven with her fist bloody and pulled back for another blow.  She does nothing to stop it.

Luckily for her, Officer Briller did. Suddenly, Raven’s weight is yanked off of her and the girl is dragged away kicking and screaming. Another set of hands find their way on Clarke’s shoulders and she is carefully lifted back onto her feet (though she has to lean heavily on whomever to stay that way).

“What the hell is going on here?!” Pike’s voice booms throughout the room.

“It’s all your fault!” Raven wails, thrashing against Briller’s grip around her waist. “Finn’s dead because of _you_.”

Clarke’s world freezes, the spinning gone as well as the throbbing of her head and the rushing of adrenaline. She could not even feel her heart beating in her chest. Every single part of her being hanged on Raven’s every word.

“Finn was out driving because of _you_. Finn was _drunk_ because of _you_.”

“W-wha-”

“Finn chose you and you repay him by disappearing and going off to sleep with some other guy. Finn drunk himself into oblivion because of _you_. Finn was driving trying to find _you._ Finn chose _you_ and _you_ killed him!” She yanks against Briller’s hold, gaining a couple of inches toward Clarke, “He’s dead because of you!” She swipes at Clarke, “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Okay! That’s enough!” Pike bellows, “Briller, throw her in a cell to cool off.”

“Yes, sir!” Biller tugs Raven back and begins the task of hauling her away. Clarke can hear her screams of frustration and hatred, as well as her sobs of grief, long after she leaves the room and disappears deeper in the building.

_It’s all your fault. Finn is dead because of you. You killed him._

Her whole body begins to shake and a hand raises to her mouth.

“Miss? Are you okay?” A voice calls out beside her, but it’s barely a squeak compared to the voice roaring in her head.

_Finn’s dead. All your fault. He died because of you. Just like Wells. Just like your father._

Bile races up her throat and she dives for the nearest trashcan.

_Wells would have been in his room talking with you on skype if you weren’t so petty and picked up the phone. He wouldn’t have been in the library when a little girl came in with a_ gun, the voice hisses, _Your father would still be alive if you loved him more. Visited him more. Talked to him on the phone more often. Maybe then he wouldn’t have felt so alone in that jail cell. Maybe then he wouldn’t have hung himself with his own bed sheet.You knew something was wrong that day, but you did nothing. You’re just as bad as your mother._

Clarke grips the sides of the trashcan harder as her body dry heaves.

_And Finn_ , the voice coos, _Poor sweet happy-go-lucky Finn. Look what you did to him. He never used to have more than a couple of beers at a time until he met you. Now, all of a sudden he is a raging alcoholic, drowning his sorrows in a bottle? Finn never would have been wasted if not for you. Never would have been out on that road._

She’s gripping so tight she thinks the metal might be bending beneath her fingers.

_Maybe then that family of 5 would still be alive, Clarke._ _Only 19 years old and you’ve already have a body count of 8. How many more, huh? How many more people will you_ ** _murder_** _?_

“Clarke!” A firm shake to her shoulders causes her mind to snap back to the precinct. Officer Pike is standing over her, a firm hand on her shoulder and a cold expression on his face. “I need you to calm down, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke nods her head yes and presses her mouth into a thin line.

“Okay good. Do you think you can stand up?”

She nods her head yes and carefully pushes herself into a standing position. Her legs sway, but she manages to keep herself upright.

“Good. That’s good. Next thing we’re going to do is get you cleaned up alright? It looks like you have a split lip and a small gash on your left cheek below your eye.” He turns to Monroe. “Monroe! Go get the medkit from the back room.”

“Yes, sir!” She jumps to command and scrambles out of the room.

“Now Clarke,” Pike leads her to the closest chair and sits her down, “I have to ask. Would you like to press charges against the woman who did this?”

She vehemently shakes her head, “No! I’m fine.”

_It’s the least you deserved. You killed her family, you murder._

“Somehow I doubt that. Is there anyone you would like me to call?”

_Who would you call? Everyone who loved you is dead. It is only a matter of time Jasper and Monty end up dead because of you too. And Bellamy._

She shakes her head no.

“Are you sure? I can-”

“I’ve got the med-kit!” Monroe burst back into the room.

The rest of Pike’s words are lost in the process of patching Clarke up. Soon her busted lip has stopped bleeding and been disinfected and her cheek is taped up with a couple of butterfly bandages. Monroe gives her a final once over before firmly shutting the lid of the med-kit.

“Well that takes of the external wounds. I’m afraid I can’t do much about the bruising that is sure to come later. Nothing about the headache eith-” She pauses and turns to Pike, who has taken refuge in the chair across from them, “Do you think she hit her head hard enough to cause a concussion?”

Clarke shakes her head, “Besides the initial dizziness from the impact, I haven’t lost my sense of balance nor my coordination since. I don’t have any nausea— the vomiting earlier more to do with shock than anything else— and there is no ringing in my ears.”

“Medical student?”

“Pre-med.”

Monroe whistles, “Wow! How’d someone so smart end up in a cheating fiasco?” Clarke flinches. “Shit! I’m sorry I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay.” Clarke pushes herself up from the chair, “If it is alright with you, I think I would like to go home now.”

“Yes, of course.” Pike rises from his chair, “Would you like someone to escort you home, or-”

“I’m fine to drive thank you.” She turns to Monroe, “As for the paperwork regarding Finn’s-” she pauses, “Finn. I think it would be best if you let Raven— the girl from earlier— to handle it. She’s a lot closer to family to Finn than I was.”

_All you are is a murder._

“But I would appreciate it if you contact me should any expenses arise.”

_Think you can buy a guilt-free conscious? It’s just blood money._

Monroe looks at her confused, “Are you sure? I mean-”

“I’m sure.” She takes a step to leave when the phone shrills throughout the room. Monroe hastily picks it up.

“Polis Central Police Department.” She pauses, “Sir, I am not at liberty to say… _Oh_ , you’re the one that called earlier, yes? Hold on she is right here.” She lowers the phone and offers it to Clarke. “It’s you friend— Bellamy, I think his name was. He sounds pretty worried.”

Her first thought is to run, go hide and lick her wounds where no one can see her and no one can get hurt. Her second thought is the warmth of his hand curled around her own and the soft words that only ever come out when they were alone. She takes the phone.

“Bellamy?”

A rush of breath fills the other end of the receiver, “God damn it Clarke what the hell did I say about my heart?”

“Sorry.”

“You better be fucking sorry! Do you know how freaked out we’ve been since you took off? I’ve been going out my mind!” She can hear the strain in his voice against the undeniable relief.

“If you had gotten in some sort of accident and something happened to you, I wouldn’t have known. I would have-” He pauses, taking in a shaky breath, “Don’t do that to me again, alright?”

_Finn crashed and died looking for you. Finn was driving trying to find you. Finn chose you and you killed him. It’s your fault._

“Finn’s gone, Bellamy.” She sobs into the phone. Finn’s gone and she’s to blame.

“Shh,” Bellamy sooths, “I know, Clarke. I know. I’m so sorry.”

_You killed him. Murder. Murder. Murder!_

“It’s my fault.”

“No!” His voice is sharp and stern, “This is _not_ your fault, do you hear me? _This is not your fault!_ ”

“It is.”

“No, Clarke listen. You have no blame in this okay? What he did, that’s on him, not you.”

“But, Bellamy-”

“No, okay? Just no. But if for whatever sick, self-loathing, part of you can’t believe that then you’re forgiven okay? I forgive you. Don’t let your mind tell you otherwise.”

“Bellamy.”

“Clarke, no. Look, we all hopped in a cab and we’re almost there, okay? Don’t leave the station until we get there. Don’t leave without _me_.”

“Bellamy, I- I can’t.”

_How many more people will die just because you care about them, huh Clarke? How many more people will you_ ** _murder_** _._

_No one_ , she thinks back to the voice, _No one else is going to die because of me._

“I’m sorry, Bellamy.

“Clarke.”

It sounds like he’s begging. The sound making her skin crawl and making her want to sooth away his worries and wrap herself in his arms and pretend everything's okay. But it isn’t. Finn is dead and nothing is okay. Soft words cannot fix her this time and if he tries, then he will end up dead.

_Just like all the rest_.

“Bellamy, I-” _I love you_ , “I’m sorry.”

“No Clarke! _Wai-_ ” She hangs up the phone. What little of her heart she has left shatters with the click of the receiver sliding back into place. (Shame really, it was just starting to learn to be whole again.)

“Thank you, ” She murmurs to Monroe, who only gives her a sad look.

The room is silent as Clarke gathers her things and rushes out the door. She brushes past Officer Briller, who calls out for her, but she doesn’t bother to look back. In fact, she doesn’t look back until there are miles of endless road in her rearview mirror.

She does not know where she is going and, frankly, she does not really care. All she has is the silence surrounding her in the car and Raven’s word in the back of her mind.

_Finn chose you and you killed him. He’s dead because of you! Murderer! Murderer!_

She’s reminded of a documentary she watched with Bellamy a few night back. It was something about the Manhattan Project in the 1940’s. Bellamy had long since fallen asleep with his head in her lap and her fingers buried in this curls as they scratched softly at his scalp. She remembers Oppenheimer’s voice penetrating the silence of the room.

“I am become Death, destroyer of worlds,” she recites.

She thinks of Raven’s face distorted in agony, her wails echoing down the halls of the police station. She thinks of Finn’s smile now on a cold corpse. She thinks of the panics in Wells’ voice as he begged for his life. She thinks of her father being dragged away in handcuffs. 

        She thinks of Bellamy. She thinks of his soft smiles and his voice whispering in her ear, telling her everything is going to be okay (though she did not believe him all the time). She thinks of the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and the way his forehead wrinkles when he is ranting about some historical inaccuracy or another. She thinks of the way her heart flutters when his voice rumbles against her back. She thinks of the cracking of his voice as he asked her to stay and how she left him anyways.

“Fitting.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all didn't think all those minor details in the previous chapters were for nothing, did you? I slaved over making sure I was continuous with every detail (let me tell you I stared at some of the older chapters for way longer than a person should, let me tell you.)
> 
> OKAY BEFORE YOU SHOUT AT ME:  
> -I know this chapter was a lot of angst and not enough Bellarke, but I feel like I owe this chapter (and the next if I'm being honest) to Clarke's development as a character  
> \- Raven is written this way for a reason. I fucking love Raven okay? But I feel like Raven had this deep anger for Clarke, even in the show, when it came to Finn. It's hard not to be angry at the person who (unknowingly) flipped your entire life upside down. She's angry and lashing out.  
> \- Clarke's mind is a very fucked up place. I'm sorry.
> 
> Okay, now you can yell at me.  
> If you every have any questions about how I come put with this story or simply want to know how the next chapter is going along, feel free to drop by on my [tumblr](awfullybashful.tumblr.com) or track the tag: tcioa updates.
> 
> As always thank you all so much for the comments and Kudos. You are the absolute best!


	13. Last Night for a Table of Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is spiraling and she's spiraling fast. After two weeks of being AWOL and hopping around random bars in random towns, the last person she expects to see is John Murphy. Yet, that is exactly who plops down next to her one night at the bar. Clarke is left scrambling to try and cope with this new addition to her life while simultaneously trying to keep life afloat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I unapologetically love this chapter and definitely because of my sassy son.
> 
> Also I just really want to thank you all so much for the nomination for the Bellarke Best Holiday AU award! Like wow! We may not have won but I'm so grateful for the opportunity and it would never have been possible if not for all of you! You freaking rock!

Two weeks.  She has been gone for two weeks now and she has not had a sober night since. Everyday her mind has been in a non-stop drunken haze and her hand wrapped tightly around a glass or the neck of the bottle of whatever liquor she could get for the night. She shoots back a shot of vodka and slams the glass on the bar, the familiar burn sliding down her throat and settling in her stomach. She signals for the bartender.

        The bar is alive around her, the usual Sunday crowd murmuring, but she does not even recognize faces anymore, each one blending together beneath the bottom of her glass. She counts 25 faceless bodies tonight, each chattering away endlessly and moving around in the corner of her eye. Though, she supposes it does not matter how many people are in the bar, she drinks alone. Another shot, another signal to the bartender.

        It took her a few weeks of bar hopping to find a bar with a staff willing to keep the drinks coming and their lips sealed shut, but she managed to find a few (granted, they  were shady enough to just take her money and let her drown her mind into oblivion). Her wallet was starting to hurt, but she could not bring herself to be bothered (bars tend to have a few cheap bottles on hand anyways).

        The first joint she found was a place two towns over from Polis. She remembered pulling her car into the parking lot of the nearest bar and began the long process of making herself forget. She just wanted to forget. She wanted to forget about Finn and Raven, about Wells and her dad, everything. Most of all she wanted to forget the part she played in them. So it continued. She would drink in a different bar every night, sometimes times in a different part of town or a new city entirely. She slept in random motels room she could  find or in her car when she couldn’t. Soon enough she did not even know what city it was let alone if she was even in Virginia anymore. She drank and drank until the memories blurred and eventually stopped all together. And for a time, it worked. She would drink, people would leave her alone (mostly), and she got to forget her problems— at least until oblivion wore off. It was great, until it wasn’t.

        Truthfully, it was her own fault. She broke the single rule she set for herself: solitude. But after nearly a week of hopping around from bar to bar, she found Heda, this cramped basement bar at the edge of town. Heda was more crowded that her usual haunts and the bustle of life made her feel more alone than she was already. That is when she saw Lexa.

        She walked into the bar with an air of confidence that commanded the room’s attention, a blank face, and a no-shits attitude that exuded from her every gesture. She was a siren and Clarke a sailor drawn to the sweet melody of her smile and the hum of her voice in the shell of her ear. Lexa fit into Clarke’s life in a way that she never expected most of all because Lexa was running too. She told Clarke that love is weakness, but Clarke could see the pain behind her eyes with every word. Some nights when the world would grow darker and the crowd slowly dwindled out of the bar, Clarke would hear a name spill from Lexa’s lips that were too drunk to keep it sealed. _Costia_. That was the name of her demons, just like Clarke’s were named Finn, Wells, and Jake. Clarke never asks and neither does she (that is the one rule to their little game). Still, sometimes Clarke would catch Lexa whispering the name like a prayer and a curse. _Costia_. Her eyes would grow distant and Clarke knew another round would be needed sooner rather than later to pull her back. _Costia_. The woman’s name is still on her lips as she kisses Clarke a week into their companionship. Not the one she _wants_ to be kissing.

        Still, Clarke kissed her back because why not? They were both hiding from a past so painful that it was easier to drown their sorrows in liquor and scream at the world that love is weakness because the truth is that they are weak and feel too much too hard. Yet, as Lexa’s lips move against her own, all Clarke can think about is a head of inky curls and a galaxy of freckles and Clarke knows that Lexa is not the one she should be kissing.

        When she pulls away, cutting the kiss too short, she can see the hurt flash across Lexa’s face and how quickly it turns to a look of anger.

        “I thought you of all people would understand, Clarke.”

        “No, I don’t,” was all she could respond before dragging herself out of the bar and back to her motel room. She left town the next day.

        It was more bouncing around after that and took a couple of days before she landed in the dive she currently haunts. She runs a finger around the rim of her glass.

        _At least one good thing came out of all this moving_ , she thinks, raising the glass to her lips, _No one has found her yet_.

        A body plops down in the seat next to hers and she thinks maybe she spoke too soon.

        “Long time no see, Princess.”

        She glances out of her peripheral vision to see Murphy slouching on the stool to her left. “No.”

        “No what?”

        “No to whatever you’re going to say.” She slams the shot back and signals the bartender, “No to whatever you’re going to do. Just no.”

        “Tell me how you really feel,” he smirks.

        “Fuck off Murphy. And take anyone else you brought with you.”

        “Nah,” He leans on the bar, “I think I like exactly where I am. Besides, I fly solo.”

        “Did you not hear what I said? Go. The fuck. Away.”

        She whips back towards the bartender and raises her glass impatiently. Her mind is halfway to oblivion and she is going to need a lot more to drive her over the edge. She needs to get rid of Murphy first. Still, she could not help but wonder one thing.

        “How the fuck did you even find me?”

        His smirks and offers her a lazy shrug, “I may not be a college kid, but bars— especially sleazy joints like this? I know bars. Though, I gotta say, Princess, never pegged you for the type.”

        “Oh because you know me so well?” She drops the glass back down.

        “You’re right. I don’t really know you, but I do know one thing: you look like shit.”

        The bartender chooses that exact moment to appear, a wide smile on his face as he throws a towel over his shoulder. “Classy as always, Murphy.”

        “Otan, my man! How’s your sister?”

        “Still waiting for you to go into her shop so she can give you that matching face tattoo,” he laughs.

        “She’ll be waiting a while then. I told her my face is too pretty to mark up.” They share a laugh and the noise grated on her ears.

        “Excuse me, but can I get a top off?”

        Otan (who the hell names their kid Otan?) quirks a brow but says nothing as he reaches for the bottle of cheap vodka he has been filling her glass with all night.

        “Oh fuck no!” Murphy groans, “Tell me you haven’t been serving her that shit!”

        “It’s what the lady asked for, ” he shrugs.

        Murphy turns back to Clarke , “I take back what I said. I know two things about you: you look like shit _and_ you have a shitty taste in drinks. If you’re going to go AWOL and wallow as you drown in booze at least make sure it’s _good_ booze!”

        He taps two fingers to the bar, “Get us two glasses of tequila so we can do this right!”

        “We? There is no _we,_ Murphy. I told you that I’m not going to talk to you and I’m sure as hell not going to drink with you.”

        “Yeah, well, I’m not going anywhere.”

        “Then you can sit here and drink alone.”

She shoves away from the bar so hard the stool scrapes the floor.  A few patrons turn to see what the commotion is about but quickly lose interest as Clarke gathers her things.

        “Charge the tab to my card,” she spits at Otan. After he nods his understanding, she turns to leave when Otan clears his voice and extends his hand.

“Keys.”

She rolls her eyes but digs through her pocket all the same.  It is not like she really planned to drive. Especially after Finn. She dumps the keys in his waiting palm.

“I’ll be back for those tomorrow morning.”

        Turning to go, her head spin and her step staggers causing Clarke to stumble towards the bar. She would have hit it if not for Murphy’s hands that shot out and steadied her.

        “I thought you could hold your liquor, Princess, because this is a piss poor show of it.”

        She rips her arm away, “Don’t touch me!”

        Murphy makes a big show of releasing her arm and holding his hands in the air, backing up. “Alright then, next time I’ll let you fall. You’re welcome by the way.”

        Her eyes narrow into a glare, “There will not be a next time because you’re going to go back to whatever hole you came out of and _leave me alone_. Got it? Don’t follow me.”

        “No need to.” He turns back to the bar and picks up the drink Otan had poured him, “You can’t run forever.”

        She doesn’t even bother to answer, just turns and walks right out the bar. He did not need to remind her of that; it was the only thing she knew very well.

 

* * *

 

        When Clarke wakes up next, everything hurts. Her hair is in a knotted mess from her restless tossing and turning, her eyes are raw and red from the tears that escaped in her sleep, and her mouth feels like cotton. Sunlight streams through the paper thin curtains of the motel room and she has to sling an arm over her eyes to shield them. She lays there for a few minutes and listens to the rush of blood in her ears and counts the throbs between her eyelids. Everything hurts, but she still could not feel a damn thing.

        At first, there had been anger. She was angry at Finn for drinking and driving, hating that he used her as an excuse to do so when _he_ was the one who destroyed things between them. She was angry that after everything, Finn still found some way to tear another hole in her heart. She was angry that she went to Bellamy’s cabin, even more so that she left. She was so angry and lonely and heartbroken all over again and all she could do was scream and cry. But, as always, the anger faded and left in its wake was guilt and an overwhelming numbness.

        So she drank. She drank until she was no longer aware of the waking world and her guilt riddled thoughts fell to a muted murmur. She drank until she had to peel her body off the bar and stumble back into her motel room to pass out, most nights not even making it to the bed, just settling for the cool tile of the bathroom floor. In the morning when the alcohol had burned itself from her bloodstream, she was left battered and bruised from her crash landing back into reality. At least while her body was throbbing in agony, she can pretend for a second that she feels the pain.

        She lays there for another minute or two until her bladder dictates that it time to get up. Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she knocks aside a few empty bottle from last night or the few nights before (she can’t really recall). After stumbling into the bathroom and relieving her bladder, Clarke finds herself braced against the sink and her eyes staring at the mirror.

        Bloodshot eyes, dark circles and thinned cheeks dripping water stare back at her. The reflection mimics her movements as she touches the faint like under its left eye. She turns her back to the mirror and dries her face, not looking back as she flips the lights on her way out.

        Doing a quick scan of the room, she spots her shoes haphazardly kicked off near the door and another quick search finds her socks poking out from underneath the bed. She runs a hand through her tangled hair and pulls them both on. Donning a pair of sunglasses, she opens the door to brave the world long enough to get her car keys. It is time she got the hell out of this city, sooner rather than later.

        However, it appears that the world personally has it in for Clarke because not only is she greeted by the full force of the sun, standing directly in her path is Murphy. Murphy who has his arms folded across his chest with matching sunglasses and a wolfish smile on his lips. Murphy who is currently leaning against the hood of _her car_.

        “Rise and shine, Princess! The whole world is waiting for you!” he greets sarcastically with a wave of his arms.

        “M-Murphy?!” She sputters, stopping dead in her tracks, but her surprise quickly gives way to anger, “What the _fuck_ are you doing with my car?”

        His grin widens, “I know the bartender.”

        _The mother—_

“Give me my keys!” She growls, holding out her hand.

        You mean these?“ He dangles a ring of keys in front of him, giving them a little shake.

        “ _Yes._ ”

        “Nah,” his fist curls around them, “I think I’ll hand on to them for a bit. This is a really nice car you got here.”

        “I swear to God, Murphy.” She closes the space between them, “If you do not give me those keys, I’m going to break your fucking nose. For real this time.”

        He leans closer, his lips curving into a smirk. “Try it.”

        And really, she cannot be blamed for actually doing it. (He _did_ tell her to _try_.) Clarke winds her fist back and hits him square in the left cheek. His head snaps with the momentum and crumbles to the ground, keys falling from his grasp as he goes. He is groaning on the ground as she sweeps up her prize.

        “Next time, just stay out of my way.” She steps over his prone form to reach the car.

        “Next time,” Murphy runs a thumb over the cut that now graces the corner of his mouth, “Make sure you have the key you actually need before walking away. _Princess._ ”

        She whips around to see the little black rectangle hanging from his ring finger. Looking down at the keyring in hand, she sees the empty ring where the key used to sit. _That son of a—_

        “You know what they say about trusting a thief, sticky fingers and all that.” He wiggles his fingers to emphasize his point.

        “You know what, Murphy? Fuck you.” She hurls the now useless keys at him and turns to go. She could fucking _walk_ out of this town for all she cares.

        “Aw, come on Clarke.” He calls after her, “If it’s a ride to a bar you want, I’ll gladly give you a lift.”

        “No thanks.”

        “Have it your way.” There is a slight pause as he lifts himself up with a grunt, “I’ve been wondering how fast this baby can be pushed anyways. Buddy of mine owns a racing ring the next town over, bet I could earn some good cash.”

        She stops and turns around slowly, “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

        “ _Try me_.”

        “I swear—”

        Murphy walks over to the passenger side and opens the door. “Well, I guess you will just have to get in and stop me, huh?”

        Her mouth clicks shut and her eyes meet his in a glare, challenging him. His wolfish grin makes a reappearance and Clarke knows that he can and _will_ follow through with any threat he’s making. Not seeing a way out (the stupid mother fucker) she stalks over to the car and climbs in. Murphy’s smile only grows wider. When he just stares at her with that smug expression like he’s won (which he has not _yet_ ) she crosses her arms and pointedly stares at the windshield.

        “Well? Are you taking me to the bar or not?”

        “Right away your highness.” He slams the door close and jogs over to the driver’s side.

        He climbs in hits the engine button. The car roars to life and he throws a feral grin in her direction as he fastens his seatbelt.

        “Strap in, Princess.” He shifts the car out of park and into reverse, “Oblivion, here we come!”

        The car peels out of the parking lot and shoots down the road.

 

* * *

 

        “Where the fuck are you taking me?” Clarke snaps as she watches the ‘You are leaving’ sign disappear behind their rapidly moving car. “You said you’d take me to the bar!”

        Murphy drums his fingers against the steering wheel, “I said I’d take you to _a_ bar. Never said which one.”

        Clarke grits her teeth and balls her hands in her lap. “I swear if this is some ploy to get be to go back, I will jump out of this car right now.”

        He snorts. Fucking _snorts_!

        “Relax, Princess. I told you I’m not here to spirit you away to Blake and the gang.”

         “Then why _are_ you here?”

        “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

        He throws her a smirk before flicking on the radio and cranking the volume until the windows vibrated with bass. Taking the hint that the conversation was over, Clarke rolls down her window and watches as Murphy merges onto the highway. She rests her head on her arms and closes her eyes, letting the wind blow through her hair and sending it every which way. She doesn’t open them until the car stops nearly two hours later. When they open, they have arrived at a dingy building that is most definitely not a bar.

        “This doesn’t look like a bar,” she quips.

        “That’s because it isn’t.”

        He hops out of the car and starts striding toward the building, leaving her to either follow or wait in the car. Something tells her that if she waits, she’ll be waiting for a while, so she takes her chances on following him. At least that way she can find herself privy to whatever Murphy was up to.

        He does not say anything when she jogs to catch up to him, just locks the car with a quick beep and leads her into one of the buildings. Nor does he say anything as they make their way up some dirty stairwell, nor when they reach a door and Murphy digs out a set of keys and unlocks the door. In fact, it is not until Murphy kicks in the door (the lock was sticking) and he waves a hand in that he says anything at all.

        “Welcome to Casa de Murphy.”

        “You live here?”

        “Yup.”

        “Your apartment is shit.”

        “Yeah, well you look like shit. Get in.” He waves her in as he crosses the threshold himself.

        Clarke takes a few steps in and looks around. She was not really kidding when she called his apartment shit (at best it could be called trashed). The place was about the size of a shoe box and from what she could tell, the shape of one too. As soon as she steps through the door, it is like she has entered a war zone of trash and discarded clothing. Beer bottles scatter an old trunk that is serving as a coffee table with empty bags of chips and wadded up wrappers lining the edges of the couch and the shitty TV (don’t ask her how) has a single sock draped on top of it. Letting her gaze drift farther into the room, she notices a small island behind the couch with a pyramid of beer cans resting on its center.

        “Have you never heard of a laundry basket? Or a _trash can_?” She scoffs, side stepping a t-shirt to make her way deeper into the apartment.

        Murphy in his defense only shrugs, “It’s clean when I want it to be.”

        “Yeah and when is that? Never?”

        “If you hate it so much be my guest and start cleaning. Otherwise,” he walks over and plops down onto the couch, “learn to love it, Princess, because this is home for the time being.”

        “Excuse you?”

        “Mi casa es su casa.”

        “I’m not staying here.”

        “Yes you are.”

        “No, I’m not. I have a motel remember? Where you kidnapped me? Two hours ago that way?”

        “One, I didn’t kidnap you. You willingly got into the car.” She snorts, “Two, you’re already checked out. Like before your drunken ass even woke up this morning. You’re welcome.”

        “No one asked you to!”

        Murphy shrugs, “Too bad. Go take a shower.”

        “For the love of— Why am I _here_ Murphy?”

        “To take a shower,” he answers simply.

        “That’s not what I’m asking and you know it!” She points a finger at him accusingly.

        “You want to drink right? Well I’m not taking you anywhere looking or _smelling_ like that. Take a shower and change your clothes and I’ll take you to get that drink.”

        Clarke wants to argue— she does— but her mind is already beginning to fray with the lure of oblivion and doubt is creeping in closer and closer as the hangover recedes. She swallows the shattered remnants of her pride and closes her mouth. She just wanted the numbness gone and if she has to play Murphy’s game to get it, she will.

        “I don’t have any clothes,” she mumbles weakly.

        When she had tore out of the cabin, she did not think she would not be coming back (she wasn’t thinking much of anything, her body just moved). It was only thanks to an old ratty pair of converse, a t-shirt, an emergency pair of jeans, and set of undergarments that she was not in  the same outfit she left in. (She found one of  Finn’s sweaters buried in the back of her trunk, but she could barely bring herself to look at the garment let alone wear it.)

        “Are you telling me that you’ve been dressed like _that_ for two weeks? In the snow?”

        She shrugs. It was hard to feel cold when you spent most of your time either in a bar packed full of people or too drunk to notice the weather.

        “Okay!” He claps his hands together on his knees, “Get in the shower. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

        Her face twists in a grimace, “I’m not about to wear your disgusting dirty clothes that— let’s be honest— were probably picked up off this nasty floor.”

        “Shut up and go shower.” She gave him an unimpressed look. “Go!”

        She remains rooted to her spot. She may _want_ oblivion, but she will be damned if she lets Murphy get away with bossing her around like some child.

        “For the love of— _Please_ go shower so I don’t have to smell you!”

        Clarke huffs, satisfied, and spins on her heels, stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door closed behind her.

        “Towels are under the sink!”

        Clarke glares at the door (as if it was the thing pissing her off) before turning toward the shower-bath combo in the right hand corner of the room. If he wanted her to take a shower so bad, fine. She will take a shower. If it just so happens to that she takes the longest shower she is pretty sure she has ever had in her life, well that is hardly her problem at all.

 

* * *

 

        When she finally emerges from the bathroom, a blue towel wrapped snuggly around her person and a cloud of steam following her, she starts down the hall and into the living room to see whatever clothes Murphy managed to dig up for her. Only, when she exits the hall, she discovers the room is empty. Circling back, she checks the only other room of the apartment, the bedroom, but besides a stack of laundry and the usual furniture, the room is devoid of a certain pain in her ass. Shrugging, she turns to return to the bathroom when the front door is kicked open then shut. She pokes her head around the corner.

        “Where the hell have you been?”

        “It’s amazing how much you can do when a person is in the shower for an hour and a half.” He chucks a pair of boots on the trunk and drops a stack of clothes next to them. “Put those on.”

        Clarke eyes the stack suspiciously, “Are those _my_ clothes?”

        She picks up the first piece of clothing, a charcoal long sleeved shirt, and okay that’s not hers, but the underwear beneath it certainly is. She quickly snatches up the pile and clutches it against her chest. “Did you do my _laundry_?”

        Murphy shrugs, “You’re the one that didn’t want to wear my clothes,” he waves a hand around, “something about them being ‘dirty’ and picked up off my ‘nasty’ floor?”

        “That doesn’t mean you can rummage through my things!”

        He smirks, “What? Afraid that I’m going to see something I shouldn’t?” The smirk grows, “Nice cheeseburger panties by the way. Very sexy.”

        Clarke can feel the heat crawl up her neck and pool in her cheeks. Clutching the garments tighter, she snags the boots off the trunk and whips around to retreat back into the bathroom.

        “I don’t choose my underwear for anyone but me!”

        Murphy laughs, “Whatever you say.”

        She slams the door behind her.

        When she reemerges, she is dressed in the charcoal shirt (that is just a bit too tight across her chest) and her thick black leggings. She yanks the zipper up on her last boot and walks over to Murphy who has draped himself on the couch once more.

        “Where did you even find this shirt?” She tugs on the collar for what has to be her third time, “Because it is definitely not mine.”

        “I just grabbed it when I was doing laundry.”

        “Are you telling me that I’m wearing some poor girl’s stolen shirt?”

        “Don’t worry, I threw it in the wash with your stuff.”

        “Murphy!”

        “What? I left her a 10!” He pushes off the couch and starts past her and into the bedroom

        When he reappears, he has donned the same leather jacket hoodie combo he had on when she first met him. It was only a few weeks ago, but it feels like months since that day he showed up on the cabin doorstep. Everything had been lighter then, her friends were still drunk and laughing, Bellamy’s face wasn’t etched with worry and his voice was calm and soothing. Finn wasn’t dead and Raven’s heart wasn’t in pieces.

        She is thrown out of her thoughts when her vision is obscured by a piece of cloth. A wave of pine and cinnamon washes over her and she yanks the material off her face to see a familiar grey coat. Her eyes flicker between the coat and Murphy.

        “Why do you have this?” Her fingers tighten in the material, gripping it to her like a vice.

        “Grabbed it when I was leaving the Blake’s. I forgot my jacket and wasn’t about to freeze my ass off.”

        He’s lying. He’s _obviously_ lying, but the part she can’t figure out is _why_. Why did he have Bellamy’s coat? Why was he lying about it? Why was he here in the first place? Why. Why Why.

        She opens her mouth to ask any number of those questions when he cuts her off and starts for the door.

        “Come on.”

        “Now where are we going?”

        “To drink.”

 

* * *

 

        They leave the car parked outside the apartment much to Clarke’s chagrin (“Look at it this way, Princess. Now it only has a 60% chance of getting keyed or stolen”), but Murphy was adamant that driving would only be a nuisance and they would be better off walking.

        “Besides,” he calls over his shoulder, “We’re going to be too drunk to drive it back.”

        While a fair point, Clarke is still reluctant to admit the fact and narrows her eyes into slits. Murphy, apparently undisturbed by the daggers she stares into his back, continues to lead them down the street until they come across this unassuming brick building. The windows have been tinted black and the paint that once made up a sign is chipped away to the point where all that is legible are the initials K.W.

        Murphy nudges the door open with his shoulder and leans in the doorway, propping it open for Clarke to peer inside.

        “Come on,” he nods his head in the direction of a long and dimly lit hallway. Clarke is understandably hesitant to enter.

        “I don’t have all day. Or perhaps you’ve decided to go sober?”

        Clarke stiffens, crosses her arms, and levels him with a flat look. If he thinks he can scare her off by bringing her to some shady bar in the middle of nowhere, he has got another thing coming. She was practically a master at shady establishments at this point. Without so much as another look, she brushes past him and steps into the hallways.

        “That’s what I thought.” He steps in after her and they are plunged into darkness. “Keep walking. The door is at the end of the hall.”

        “Any chance I’ll get my drink _before_ I’m mugged and stabbed to death?”

        “No one is going to stab you, Princess. At least as long as you keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut.”

        “Aw, you think my mouth is pretty?”

        “The prettiest.”

        They reach the door Murphy mentioned, but when Clarke goes to try the handle, she finds it locked. She points out as much.

        “It just needs a special touch.”

        Murphy practically shoves her aside and crouches in front of the door. He digs out a small leather kit from his back pocket and sets to work on picking the lock.

        “Jesus, do you always carry around a lockpicking kit? Or were you specifically planning on breaking in today? Because I really don’t want to go to jail.”

        “Relax,” the lock clicks into place and the door swings open. He straightens out and shoves the kit back into his pocket, “We’re not going to go to jail. Come on.”

        He tucks his hands into his jeans and leads the way into the bar. The room is all rich dark woods and exposed brick walls. There was not a single window in sight, but the room is bathes in a dimmed orange light from the metal fixtures hanging from the ceiling. A brick wall bisects the room, hinting that it used to be two before someone took a sledgehammer to the wall and created two large openings. A long wooden bar takes up the left half of the room, the dark wooden counter polished to the point where light bounced off of it. Beyond the bar are shelves upon shelves of an assortment of alcohol bottles in all shapes, sizes, and coloring. The right half of the room is mostly occupied by tables and chairs and a few booths lining the wall, all made with the same dark wood and red leather for the seats.

        It was beautiful and begs the question of how the hell Murphy knew of such a place. She is just about to ask when a door behind the bar swings open and a man with a towel in hand walks in.

        “You know when the door is locked, usually that means we’re closed.”

        “Yeah, well you’re open now.” Murphy slumps onto one of the barstools and shrugs out of his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the stool.

        “Well if it isn’t John Murphy!” The man’s face breaks out into a huge grin, “I thought you were off playing mountain men with Blake, Lil’ Blake, and Miller.”

        Clarke flinches at the mention of her friends, but neither of them seems to notice. (Though, the way Murphy’s eyes dart over makes her think twice.)

        “You know how it is. Only so much of Blake’s ego you can take sober.”

        The bartender lets loose a belly deep laugh, “Is he still living by that old motto of his? Whatever the hell we want or some shit like that?”

        Murphy shakes his head, “Nah, these days it’s more like ‘Whatever the hell _Octavia_ wants.’”

        “That girl always ways a spitfire.”

        “Trust me, ‘Tav’s only gotten worse.”

        The man cringes, “I can’t even imagine.”

        “It’s terrifying.”

        “I bet.”

        They share another laugh and Clarke decides that she has had enough of being ignored (at least before she can get her damn drink.) She pointedly clears her throat and folds her arms over her chest, causing both men to turn towards her. The man shoots her a charming smile.

        “Who’s your friend, Murphy?” He leans over the bar and extends a hand towards Clarke, “Hey there, I’m Wick and I own this bar.”

        “Clarke.” She doesn’t move to take his hand. After a few seconds, he pulls it back with a shrug and turns to Murphy.

        “Anyways,” Wick drawls, “To what do I owe this pleasure of you breaking into my bar?”

        Murphy grins and leans over the bar, pulling free two shot glasses and setting them down on the counter with a clink. “I’m going to need your biggest bottle of your strongest tequila.”

        Wick grimaces, “Do I even want to know?”

        “Nope.”

        “Well alrighty then.” He turns around, plucks a bottle off of the shelf, and deposits it right before Murphy. “Don’t start any fights.”

Murphy waves him off and unscrews the cap, pouring the liquid until it is in danger of spilling over the rims of the glasses. Wick rolls his eyes and disappears back through the door he came through. Murphy lifts the shot to his lips, but stops just before the liquid can splash over. He arches a brow.

        “Are you going to drink or what?”

        She lifts a brow right back, but inches closer to the bar, settling into the stool to his right. After a moment, she slips Bellamy’s coat off and lays it across her lap. Murphy slides the drink over with a finger and watches as she warily picks it up.

        She is waiting for the other shoe to drop. People do not just show up out of the blue (especially when you’ve been off the grid for two weeks) and whisk you miles away just to drink at some bar owned by their friends. People do not do that unless they want something, and for the life of her, Clarke cannot figure out just what it is Murphy wants.

        “Bottoms up, Princess.” He clinks his glass with hers and throws the drink back.

        Clarke’s eyes dart down to the glass in her hand and she stares at the amber liquid inside. Oblivion stares back. Her eyes raise to find Murphy’s trained on her and she decides that whatever his agenda may be, he can go fuck himself. She only wants to escape.

        The liquid burns its way down her throat.  The warmth follows not too soon after and she can feel its familiar weight as it settles in her —otherwise empty— stomach. She slams down the glass and he wordlessly pours her another and another, matching every two shots of hers with one of his own. They continue on like that for hours until the familiar fog has crept over her brain and the bar is swarming with people.

        No one comes up to them and — besides a few worried glances from Wick— no one even notices they exist. It is exactly what she was looking for, a place to blend into the background and let the world swallow her whole. (She never could get that anywhere else. Somebody would always try to worm their way into the seat next to her and flirt or express their concern. But here, here she faded into anonymity and ceased to exist.) So she drinks and drinks until the faces of the people blur to nothing and the voices in her head dissolve into white noise. It is the only way she can get through the night anymore.

        By the time the bottle is empty and resting against the bar, her entire world is spinning beyond her control. One look at Murphy tells her that he is not much better off, but when he stands, his feet remains firm under his weight unlike her arm which cannot seem to even support her head.

        “Okay, you two,” Wick comments as he passes by, eyes trained on the knocked over the bottle, “I think you’ve had quite enough.”

        “I reckon you’re right, Kyle!” One of the nearby patrons laughs as they walk by.

        “Kyle?” Clarke squints at Wick, “I thought your name was Wick?”

        “It is. Kyle Wick. KW. It’s on the window of the building. For whatever reason, this one,” he nods his head toward Murphy, “Started calling me Wick and it just caught on. Eventually, it just got easier to start introducing myself as such.”

        “Kyle is a fucking stupid name,” Murphy grumbles as he tries to maneuver himself into his leather jacket.

        “This coming from the guy named _John_.”

        “Fucking better than _Kyle_.”

        Clarke lets her head drop on the bar, “Another one that goes by their last name. Great. What does everyone have against their first name? Miller, Murphy, Wick,” she ticks each name off a finger, “Hell, maybe I’ll start going by Griffin now.”

        “Aw don’t go doing that,” Wick flashes her one of his smiles (something she noticed he does when trying to get a tip from a customer) “Clarke is such a gorgeous name, especially for a gorgeous lady.” He finishes off the statement with a wink and Clarke crinkles her nose in disgust.

        “Ugh!” She pushes herself off of the bar and the world tilts.

        “Oh, god,” she drops her head back down, “That was a terrible idea.”

        “Yeah, well s’ckitup,” Murphy slurs, “We’re leaving.”

        Clarke groans and turns so her cheek presses against the cool wood. The last thing she wants is to move when the world is already off its axis.

        “Come on, Princess,” Murphy wraps an arm around her waist and slings hers over his shoulder, “Time to go!”

        He pries her from the bar and starts to heave her toward the exit. All the while, Clarke whimpers in protest and buries her face in his neck. She feels more than sees the smirk work its way on his face.

        “Wait!” Wick calls out, “You’re forgetting something.” They both turn around to see Wick holding Bellamy’s coat in hand.

        Murphy shrugs (at least as much as he can with an armful of drunk blonde), “Keep it for now. We’ll be back tomorrow night anyways.”

        “Whatever you say, Murphy.” Wick goes to pull the coat back.

        “No!” Clarke untangles herself from Murphy’s grip and stumbles to grab the garment.

        When her fingers brush against the fabric, she all but yanks it from his grip. She bundles it up against her chest and keeps it there, the scent of pine and cinnamon slowly wafting to her nose. Her grip tightens. Murphy’s smirk grows like he has figured out some secret no one else knows. He shakes his head and waves her forward.

        “Well if you’re done hoarding Blake’s clothing, we’re leaving.”

        He turns to leave and Clarke debates whether or not to follow him. Her eyes travel around the bar and through the throngs of faceless people. She did not know a single soul here. She did not know what city or state she was in and is too drunk to drive with no one to call. She is alone. That thought did not comfort her so much anymore.

        He stops and looks over his shoulder, “You comin’ or wha?”

        Her gaze focuses back on Murphy. Well she had him, but how long would that really last?

        _You’re poisonous_.

        “Yeah.” She steps forward, but the world shifts and a stool collides with her thigh. Struggling to regain equilibrium, she shoots out her arms and tries to straighten out before she can topple over completely.

        Murphy groans and backtracks, “Jesus, you’re drunk.”

        He wraps an arm back around her waist and drags her out the door. Of course, he nearly plows down a couple in the process.

        “Like you’re much better, asshole.”

        “’’cuse you,” Murphy grunts, shouldering open the door, “I can hold my liquor unlike _some_ people.”

        “Fuck you.”

        “When we get back, Princess.”

        “Urgh!” She tries to pull herself away, but he just tightens his grip.

        “Quit squirming or I’ll let you fall flat on your ass.”

        Clarke grumbles, but complies (she’s 90% sure that without Murphy she would absolutely end up flat on her ass). Still, does not mean she particularly likes it.

        “I hope I puke on your shoes.”

        “Don’t you dare.”

 

* * *

 

        Somehow (and really it was some kind of miracle) they made it back to the apartment with minimal scrapes and bruises. (Murphy really did end up dropping Clarke— by accident or not, she doesn’t know. She pulled his ass down with her regardless.)

        “Home sweet-” Murphy kicks the door, something Clarke is beginning to think is the only way to open the damn thing, but it does not budge. “Home?”

        He bends over and checks the locks, but they are already unlocked from the first time he tried it. Instead, he opts for another kick. The wood only rattles in response.

        “Come on, Murphy!” Clarke whines from her place against the wall. Murphy deposited her there when he went to unlock the door and she could not quite bring herself to mind (the plaster felt cool against her face).

        “Put some back into it!”

        “You  want to try?”

        She squares her shoulders and peels herself off the wall, “Maybe I will!”

        Stumbling over to the door, she grips the handle and slams her shoulder into the wood. Still, it does not budge. Murphy snorts.

        “Put some back into it,” he mocks in a slight falsetto.

        “Shut up and come help me!” He chuckles, but slots himself next to her and braces his hand on the door. “On the count of three. One… Two… Three!”

        They slam against the door in unison and it gives way underneath their combined weight. Unfortunately, with the lack of a brace, they quickly go tumbling as gravity is not kind to those drunk enough to lose all sense of equilibrium. They end up sprawled across the floor of the entryway with Clarke somehow having landed right on top of Murphy. Murphy— being the gentleman he is— unceremoniously shoves Clarke to the side.

        “Ass.” She groans into the floor but otherwise makes no move to pick herself up.

        “Yeah, well you’re heavy.”

        “Are you call’n me fat?”

        “I’m saying those tits must weigh a ton.”

        “Go fuck yourself, Murphy.”

        “Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off and heaves himself off the floor. “You want up or do you plan to spend the night on the floor?”

        She seriously considers this for a moment. Staying on the floor meant the world would not spin and the contents of her stomach might just stand a chance at remaining in her stomach. On the other hand, she would live to regret it in the morning on top of regretting the rest of her decisions for the night. She sticks her hand out.

        “Help me up.”

        Murphy grips her forearm and pulls her off the ground, supporting her weight with his own. “Come on, Princess. Let’s get you to bed.”

        He reaches back with his foot and closes the door. They hobble down the hall and into the bedroom where he deposits her on the full-size bed of the room. Her body hits the mattress at full force, causing her to bounce a little and her brain to rattle in her skull. She groans her discomfort.

        “When’s your birfday Murphy?” Clarke mumbles as she cuddles against a pillow, “I’m gunna buy you a new mattress. This one’s shit.”

        “I’ll hold you to that.”

        The bed creaks under a new weight and Clarke opens her eyes to see a bleary image of Murphy settling in next to her.

        “What are you doing?”

        “Going to bed?”

        “Here?”

        “Yup.”

        “No.”

        “No what? This is _my_ bed. Be _glad_ I’m even letting you warm it for the night.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off. “If you don’t like it, go sleep on the couch.”

        With that, he flops down onto his side so his back is turned to her. Her eyes narrow into a glare, but the longer she stares, the heavier her eyelids get. Eventually, her mind gives into the exhaustion and they slide closed.

        “Whatever. Jus’ don’ cuddle with me.”

        Sleep takes her not long after that.

 

* * *

 

        When she wakes up, Murphy  is wrapped around her like a koala to a tree and Clarke has to untangle herself to go to the bathroom. By the time she crawls back to bed, Murphy is awake and moving about the room. At some point in the night, Murphy had shucked his pants and jackets, leaving him in only a pair of boxers and a t-shirt as he walked around the room picking up various pieces of clothes and smelling them. Clarke contemplated just crawling back under the covers and going back to sleep, but her clothes feel suffocating and the shirt is close to cutting off the circulation in her breasts.  They work around each other in silence, Clarke picking through her meager collection of clothes to find an outfit that would be a bit more comfortable and modestly warm (though now thanks to the coat she can get away with it a bit more) and Murphy gathering things to go shower.

        The day continues much like the last after that. Murphy refuses to leave until Clarke showers and puts something in her stomach to ‘avoid an incident like last night,’ he tells her (despite both know it’s going to happen again). When she looks moderately presentable, they head out to the bar and drink until Clarke is just about to pass out. Shower. Drink. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

        Murphy for his part does not say a word about her drinking, just sits there quietly and fills her glass when she empties it shot after shot until the world blurs. Sometimes, he is right there with her, chasing each shot of hers with one of his own until they both have to cling to each other to stay afloat. Other nights, he barely touches the bottle save to pour it. Very rarely will he remain completely sober. On those nights, they will take the car to the bar, though she always gets a little nervous when they do. Once, he had a couple of shots early in the night and when they went to drive home many hours later, Clarke nearly had a panic attack when he tried to get behind the wheel. She freaked out so bad, she started to hyperventilate and Murphy has to swear to leave the car and walk home. He did not say anything about that either.

        Clarke would not go as far to say that she likes his company (she does _not_ ), but more so has learned to appreciate the benefits that came with it. Her glass rarely sat empty for more than a few moments and was always refilled without question, no matter what state she might be in and until she was drunk enough not to care. She is left alone, no men or women daring to come close enough with a glare from Murphy at her side. Deep down, though, the thing she most appreciated is the fact that his presence made her feel less alone.

       He did not need to talk for her to feel it, but rather just knowing there is a warm body at her side that was not judging her or wanting anything particular from her (that she could decipher anyways) was enough. It was something Lexa’s companionship never had. It was not about shared demons, but rather the silence in knowing pain and letting the other deal with it how they needed to. Whatever that may entail. It is during nights like those that she finds herself putting the glass down before she truly reaches oblivion. He never comments when she does and instead sits there watching people flickering in and out of the bar until she decides that she want to go back.

        There are still plenty of bad days, though. There are nights where she will jolt awake with a scream on her lips, tears tracking down her cheeks, and the image of whatever horror her mind decided to torture her with that night. Sometimes it is Finn’s car twisted and deformed with blood seeping down the sides, other times it is seeing her dad walks away over and over again, no matter how hard she screams for him not to go. It is on those nights where she drinks well past oblivion in an attempt to silence the guilt eating away at her mind and filling the hole in her chest. It never really works.

        It has been one of those nights that Clarke finds herself sprawled on Murphy’s couch (she’d taken to sleeping there after almost giving Murphy a black eye from thrashing around in a nightmare) as Murphy tries to yank off her boots. She is feeling particularly shitty this day from waking up  from a nightmare about Wells to her thoughts constantly being plagued with the sound of that final gunshot ringing through her ears. Maybe that is why when Murphy turns to go, she opens her mouth.

        “Do you ever feel like you’re poisonous?” She does not even bother to wait for his reply, “Because I do. I feel like that all the time.”

        She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling, “I can’t keep anyone in my life. Not my dad, not my best friend, not any person who is even remotely interested in me, hell soon enough I won’t be able to keep you! Everyone around me dies.

        “Wells was 20, not even old enough to drink and he was shot in cold blood by some little kid. The really fucked up part? He would be alive if I picked up my phone earlier instead of ignoring his calls. How fucking petty was I? Mad at him because he had a life outside of me. What a selfish bitch I am.

        “Speaking of selfish, you should have seen me with my father! God that was pathetic. There I was wrapped up in all _my_ issues and how much _I_ needed him that I couldn’t even see that he was drowning in his own misery! He was in fucking _prison_ and all I could think about was how empty the house was with him gone.” She can feel the tears trickles out the corners of her eyes and dampen the hair by her ears.

        “And Finn.” Her voice cracks on his name, “he wasn’t even mine to love, but I did anyways, or at least I thought I did. But what did my love ever do for him? Turn him into a two-timing jerk who drank himself behind the wheel of a car. Oh and let’s not forget the family of 5 who would still be alive. God, only 19 and I’ve got a body count of 7 on my head, well 8 if you count my dad. I do. I wonder if that makes me a mass murder. What do you think?”

        The question is met with a silence that lasts a few minutes.

        “I couldn’t do that to Bellamy,” she finally says at last, “He doesn’t deserve to be dragged down with me just because my stupid heart decided to grow attached to the way he looks when he smiles or how he sounds when my name rolls off his tongue. He was just being nice and this beaten broken muscle couldn’t tell the difference between attraction and pity. He’s just so _good_ you know? He sweet and kind and smart and stupidly cocky, but he also has a beautiful family made up of his sister and his friends and this beautiful home that is so filled with life; he doesn’t need my broken self-ruining that. I don’t think I could forgive myself if I did.”

        Silence reigns the room once more. It is a long time before Clarke’s eyes fall from the ceiling and focus on Murphy’s back. His shoulders are tense and rigid and his hands are curled in fists at his sides. It seems like an eternity before they fall and he turns back around. He walks over and rearranges the blanket over her.

        “Go to sleep Clarke.” He turns and walks away, disappearing into his own room.

        As always, he did not say anything. She is just not so sure it is as comforting as before.

 

* * *

 

        Clarke wakes up to a small army marching through her head. Groaning, she yanks her blanket over her face to block out the meager light pouring in through the single window of the apartment. She shifts onto her back, but all that accomplishes is churning the contents of her stomach and sending a wave of nausea over her.

        Pulling the blanket down, she stares at the ceiling in hopes that it will ground her long enough to make it to the bathroom in order to avoid emptying last night’s contents on Murphy’s (already disgusting) floor. Lucky for her, her stomach settles enough to the point where she could sit up and shakily rise to her feet. She only manages to stumble a few feet into the hallway when Murphy’s voice stops her.

        “Well good morning to you too, sunshine.”

        Clarke tilts her head, wondering how he could have possibly seen her from where she stood 5 feet from his door. She is just about to ask as much when he continues on.

        “Yes of course I was still asleep that happens when you spend all night in a bar. You tend to sleep in.”

        Okay, so he was not talking to her. She creeps closer to peer in through the crack of the open door and sees Murphy sprawled across his bed with his phone pressed to an ear.

        “Look if you’re going to be an ass Blake, I’m going to go back asleep.”

        Clarke’s mouth runs dry and her stomach clenches. _Blake._ He’s taking to _Bellamy_. She is equal parts terrified and anxious. _Why is Murphy talking with Bellamy?_ She listens closer.

        “Yeah, well I don’t give a fuck about what you said, I’m not telling you.” A small pause.

        “Oh yeah? Come say that to my face— oh wait you’d have to find me first. Good luck with that.”

        “Oh I’m being selfish? Take a good look in the mirror, Blake! I’m not the one being selfish here!”

        There is a longer pause before Murphy booms, “Because the last thing she needs right now is you _hovering_ over her like a broken _fucking_ toy okay?!”

        The raise in his voice makes her jump, but it is his words that make the floor give out beneath her feet. He is talking about _her_. He is arguing with Bellamy about _her_. Her stomach twists with the realization and she presses a hand to her mouth (whether to stifle the gasp that escaped her lips or to seal in the rising bile, she doesn’t know). They both fall silent: Murphy either listening to something Bellamy is saying and Clarke hanging on his every breath.

        “I know, okay? I get it.” He runs a hand over his face, “But she can’t handle that right now. She feels broken and alone and fucking trapped in her own mind. Nothing you say or do is going to reach her right now, trust me.”

        He sighs heavily.

        “Christ, you should have heard her last night. It’s like just when I think she’s getting there, she’ll be drinking less and won’t fight me when I tell her to shower or eat something and then Bam! It’s like when I first found her a week ago.”

        Another pause.

        “What more do you want from me? I already spent two weeks tracking her down and another making sure she doesn’t drink herself in a fucking grave. Not to mention I’ve dealt with your calls every day for the past week to check up on her. I deserve a fucking _medal_.”

        He has been spying on her. The revelation throws her over the edge and she races for the toilet to empty her stomach. She hears Murphy curse as he scrambles off the bed.

        “Shit! I gotta go. Stop calling me!”

        Her fingers grip the bowl tighter and her stomach starts to heave air. Murphy rushes in a few moments later.

        “Jesus Christ, really?” He moves to gather her hair, “You gotta learn to hold your shit.”

        She swats his hands away and shoves him away from her. “ _Don’t fucking touch me!_ ”

        “What’s your problem? Wake up on the wrong side of the couch or some shit?”

        “What’s my problem? _You’re_ my problem!” She pushes away from the toilet and shakily rises to her feet.

        “What are you-”

        “I _heard_ you!” She screams, “I heard you on the phone with Bellamy! You can stop pretending now!”

        His jaw clicks shut and his eyes flinch under her gaze. She barrels on regardless.

        “Fuck! Is that why you’re here? So you can fucking _spy_ on me for the others? Jesus fucking Christ!” She is yanking a hand through her hair, fingers snagging on the knocks and hysteria bubbling up her throat, “ I’m just a game to you aren’t I? Let’s see how fucking far the _princess_ has fallen! Have you had enough?”

        He remains silent.

        “I can’t believe I even thought for a minute that you-” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Fuck you, Murphy. Report _that_ back to everyone.”

        She shoves her way past him and rushes out of the shithole of an apartment, barely stopping to grab her shoes from where they were thrown last night.

        _What a fucking idiot_ , she thinks to herself as she barrels down the stairs. _You let yourself believe he would stay._ What a _fucking_ idiot.

 

* * *

 

        She did not know where she was going, she just knew she had to get away— had to disappear and this time, no one would be able to find her. The only problem is that she had no car (having left the keys with Murphy), little money, and no idea where on earth she is. Yet, she can feel the walls closing in and the panic rising in her throat after every corner she turns and every street she crosses. Her body has kicked into overdrive just to keep her going, but she can already feel her legs quiver under the strain. It would only be so long before her body collapsed in on itself. She needs to find a place to lay low— preferably a place she could drown herself in liquor. (Oblivion is what she is craving and it never sounded so good.)

        She nearly loses her footing and she knows she does not have much longer. She stops and looks around. Nothing looks familiar and at that she breathes a sigh of relief. Unfamiliar is good. Unfamiliar means that it would be harder to track her down. That she could blend into the background and fade away. She starts again at a slower pace this time and starts scouring for somewhere to hide.  Most bars would not be open for another hour or so, meaning she has enough time to find the perfect spot. It takes her an hour and half of walking around before she finds something remote enough that Murphy would not think to look, yet crowded enough that she would blend in if he did. She slides onto a stool and flags down the bartender.

        “I need a glass of your strongest vodka. Straight.” She sets her card down on the bar.The bartender’s eyebrows shoot up slightly as he looks her up and down.

“I’m going to need to see some ID.” She grunts and digs out the fake ID she has been using for years. The bartender picks it up and inspects it thoroughly.  “Yeah, nice try kid. Go try your luck somewhere else.”

He turns to leave when Clarke’s hand shoots out to stop him. “Wait!”

        The bartender sighs like he cannot believe _his_ luck, but stops all the same.

        “I’ve had the shittiest few weeks alright? I _need_ this drink. My best friend is dead, my dad is dead, my cheating ex-boyfriend killed himself in a car crash and the only person I thought was on my side isn’t. Just for tonight. _Please._ ”

        They hold eye contact for a long moment before he sighs heavily and reaches for a glass and bottle of vodka. He sets them down in front of her and pours her a hearty helping before stowing the bottle away.

        “Just for tonight. Holler if you need anything okay? Or if anyone starts bothering you.”

        She nods her head, but she is not listening anymore. She waits until he walks away before she reaches for the glass. While she wants nothing more than to feel the familiar burn as she down the whole glass in one go, her deal with the bartender is tentative enough that if she goes at her usual pace, she will end up out on her ass long before she can hit oblivion. So, she slows it down almost painfully, savoring every sip of vodka and the way it pools in her belly. True, it took longer, but with every drink she could feel the pain ebb away and the fog of oblivion creep in at the edges of her mind. The bartender had just refilled her glass for a second time when everything goes to shit.

        “Hey there good looking,” a voice coos at her right.

        Clarke deigns the voice a look to see a man perhaps a few years older than herself. Everything about him screams college frat boy(and not the good kind either) from his dirty blonde hair to the stupid pink polo shirt and jean combo you only see on fuckboys.

        “No thank you.” She turns backs to her drink and hopes he will just leave it at that. She knows better than to believe it though.

        “Aw come on!” Another chimes in, this one with brown hair and a green polo, as he slides into the other stool, “Let us buy you a drink.”

        “I can buy my own drinks. Now kindly fuck off. _Please._ ”

        She picks up her glass and raises it to her lips, ready to down the contents and damn the consequences when she feels a hand caress her back and dip lower towards her ass.

        “I always did like the feisty ones best,” Pink Polo purrs into her ear.

        Clarke does not even think as she twists around and throws her drink in his face. She watches as he sputters in shock for a few seconds before pushing away from the bar to leave. Her exit is cut short when his hand shoots out and grabs her arm, jerking her to a stop.

        “You bit-”

        “I think you better not finish that sentence.” A hand grips down on Pink Polo’s wrist, “After all it’s not very polite to call people names.”

        Clarke’s eyes follow the arm to see none other than Murphy standing at her shoulder with a feral grin on his face.

        “Go away, Murphy.” She yanks her arms free, “I don’t need nor want your help.”

        “Never said you did.”

        “Who the fuck are you? Her boyfriend or something?” Pink Polo cuts in.

        “Does she need on? Are you that much of an idiot that no isn’t good enough? Or was the drink to the face too subtle?”

        “You son of a bitch-”

        Murphy smirks, “Now what did we say about name calling?”

        The guy levels Murphy with a punch to the nose and he goes clattering to the ground in a spray of blood.

        “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Clarke whirls around and throws a punch straight into Pink Polo’s jaw, causing him to stagger back a few inches.

        “Now hold up one fucking minute!” Green polo starts, but Clarke is already turning around to slam a fist into his face next. He manages to dodge it at the last moment.

        “Bitch!”

        She stomps on his foot and hits him with her next punch. His head snaps with the moment, but when his eyes meet hers again they are filled with uncontrolled fury. His arm slings back and catches her in the backswing. Clarke loses her footing and ends up stumbling back and straight into Pink Polo. She barely manages to regain her balance when he shoves her to the ground hard. Before she can even think to recover, a sharp pain flairs from her stomach then another from her ribs. She blanches as all the air leaves her lungs.

        Pink Polo bring his foot back for another blow and Clarke cringes waiting for the blow, but it never lands. When she looks up, she sees Murphy and her assailant rolling around on the ground until Murphy pins Pink Polo under him. Murphy’s fist drives into his face over and over again. He manages to get in a couple more blows before Green Polo yanks him off. Murphy starts twisting and swinging, trying to throw off his grip, but Green Polo manages to throw him against the bar, sending a couple of stools falling. Unlucky for him, it was enough of a distraction for Clarke to rise to her feet and charge at the duo.

        They all go tumbling in a tangle of limbs and wild blows. Clarke can feel her body tense with the adrenaline of the fight despite pain flaring from various places where her body has been abused. (She thinks she got socked in the eye and really isn’t looking forward to the black eye that is sure to come later.) Still, she keeps clawing her way in the scuffle trying to reach Green Polo and avoid Murphy’s punches. It is not until a pair of arms roughly wrap around her middle and yank her away does the drumbeat of her heart fade enough to hear the voice booming over the bar.

        “ _Enough_!”  She yanks against the hold on her, trying to get in another few punches, but she is easily yanked back and tossed off to the side. Murphy and Green Polo are still rolling around on the ground. “I said _enough_!”

        The boys spring apart, both looking a little worse for wear, shirts stretched and torn and blood staining each of their fists and faces. Murphy smiles a bloody smile and surrenders his hand in the air, backing off slowly.

        “I want all of you out of here. _Now_.”

        None of them need any more prompting as they start scrambling to leave. Green Polo quickly shuffles over to help Pink Polo to his feet before stumbling out the door. Clarke moves to follow them when Murphy’s fingers wrap around her wrist and pull her towards the back exit. He manages to drag her towards through the door and out by the back steps before she yanks her hand free.

        “Let go of me!” She snarls, “You don’t get to go drag me around anymore!”

        Murphy stares at her unimpressed before sighing and dropping down on the grimy steps. “Sit.”

        Clarke sees red, “If you think for one second that you can boss me around, you’ve-”

        “Sit, _please!_ ” he growls exasperated.

        Her jaw clicks shut and she glares at him, but his gaze is tilted toward the sky. She considers walking away and say to hell with it all, but something tugs at her heart and keeps her feet planted where she stands. After a moment of internal struggle, she sits down. He does not start talking right away but instead slides his eyes shut and shifts his weight so it rests on his hands behind him. She looks down at her own hand and sees that her knuckles are angry and red. Flexing the muscles, she watches her skin stretch with the movement. It stings.

        Moments tick by, but still, he says nothing. Clarke is not even sure he _is_ going to say anything or if he is waiting for her to break the silence. She waits all the same, letting the night air cool her skin and breathe through her hair. It is almost peaceful even with the muffled chatter of the bar filtering in through the door at their backs. Clarke’s eyes slide shut and she takes a deep breath. It feels like the first one in a long while.

        “I was eight years old when my dad was killed.” Clarke’s eyes snap open, but Murphy’s face remained pointed towards the sky and his eyes closed. “I was always getting sick as a kid, but we were too poor to always have medicine on hand. Usually it didn’t matter, kids bounce back quick enough that we never thought too much about it. As you can imagine that bit us hard in the ass later down the line.

        “One time I got sick and wasn’t getting any better. Later on, the doctors would tell my mother that it was a serious case of the flu, but at the time all my parents knew was that I had a fever over 100 and couldn’t stomach anything longer than a few minutes. They started to panic and my mother was ready to take me to the ER, money be damned when my father stood up and said he would take care of it and left. Turns out his idea of ‘taking care of it’ meant driving to the nearest drugstore with his loaded pistol shoved in his jacket pocket.”

        Murphy’s eyes slid open and his gaze finds her out of the corner of his eyes. “As you can imagine that went over well with the clerk on shift. My old man ended up with two shotgun shells in his chest. Bled out by the time the ambulance made it there.”

        Silence hangs over them as Clarke tries to figure out what to say. She knows exactly how empty ‘sorry’ can be. She decides that silence is the best she can offer.

        “Mom was pretty fucked up after that. She would never say it, but you could see in her eyes that she blamed me for what happened. Instead, she took to drinking her days away and pretending that I didn’t exist.”

        He pauses and in a quieter tone says, “I did everything you could imagine to get her attention. I begged, cried, stole, broke shit, started failing school, you name it. Eventually I gave up trying; nothing would get her attention. That’s when things really started to get out of control By this time, Blake was in full big brother mode, taking Miller with him and leaving me to self-destruct on my own. So I drank, got into fights with the wrong people, and mouthed off to the even worse.”

        His eyes fully turn to hers, “I remember waking up in a puddle of my own blood wondering if I was going to die that day and you know what my only thought was? If my mother even noticed that I didn’t come home last night or if she even cared. Pathetic really.”

        He laughs and the sound breaks something in her chest. She is thrown back to just after her dad died and her mother all but disappeared from her life (what little part she still had in it at the time anyways). She remembers trashing everything in her room and smashing every piece of glass in the kitchen, yet when she woke up the next day, the maid had cleaned it all and her mother never said a word about it. Just like she never said anything about the empty bottle of vodka lying around the house or the stolen cars, or the tattoo. No, the only time Abigail Griffin spoke to her daughter was when she wanted Clarke to attend some stupid benefit or another.

        She remembers the hole Wells’ absence left in her heart that Finn just never understood or could fill. She remembers falling and falling until eventually she hit rock bottom and buried the feeling in work. First finals for her classes and then everything with Finn. She felt like she was sinking in quicksand and the sand just keeps pouring in. Bellamy helped— he helped _so much_ , but just when she felt like she was climbing out, the floor swallowed her whole again. She’s not sure she wants to climb out anymore.

        “Why are you telling me this, Murphy? Why are you _here_.”

        “Because I’ve been where you are, Clarke. I’ve hit rock bottom more times than I can count and every time I felt like I didn’t want to crawl out. That maybe I _deserved_ being in this hole. That I was poisonous.”

        _You’re poisonous._   

        “Is this the part where you tell me I can’t let this eat me alive?” She hugs her knees to her chest, “Because I’ve heard enough of that from a therapist they made me see as a kid.”

        “This is the part where I’m saying I wish I had someone to tell me to pull my head out of my ass. Oblivion is a good way to end up in a grave next to those already there.”

        Silence once more. _Oblivion_. She has been chasing it for almost a month now, but it never lasts. Every morning she wakes up with the weight of death on her chest and the guilt dragging her beneath the surface so that she has to struggle to breathe let alone get on her feet. How long is she willing to chase the pipe dream of oblivion before her own two feet give out beneath her?

        “How did you do it?” She asks at last, “How did you stop feeling like you’re poisonous to everything you ever touch?”

        He shrugs one shoulder, “Kind of hard to run away from your problems in jail. Too much free time to _not_ think about all the ways you fucked up in life.”

        She waits and he sighs.

        “You never really do,” he says finally, “ You keep going every day telling yourself that you’re not and hope to god one day it’s true and that maybe one day you’ll finally believe it. Either that or you’re lucky enough to get someone who is willing to convince you otherwise.”

        Images of freckles, tanned skin, and dark curls flash in her mind and her heart breaks all over again. He would never be that person for her, not after what she did. Not after she _left_ him.

        “What about you?” Murphy tilts his head to side, “Do you believe it yet?”

        Murphy smiles, a row of bloodied teeth grinning back at her. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

        Their eyes raise back to the sky and they let the conversation die away. The night hums in their silence and Clarke feels a weight lift off her shoulders. The guilt is still there and the underlying grief over everything she has lost, but she feels like that maybe she was wrong about Murphy. He did not come here to spy on her, that much is clear now. He came because of all her friends (she guess that after everything he at least has become something akin to a friend), he understood exactly what she was feeling and that what she needed more than anything was someone to keep her from drowning. She thinks she is ready to accept that help now. That maybe she is ready to stop running. That maybe it will not be this hard to breathe.

        “Thanks Murphy.”

        His eyes slide towards her, “For what?”

        And for the first time since New Years, she smiles. It is small — barely a twitch of her lips, but a smile all the same.

        “You’re an ass.”

        “It’s a talent.” He shrugs, “Oh. Before I forget, here.”

        He digs around in his pocket and pulls out a phone, tossing it in her general direction so she has to scramble to catch it. When it lands in her palm, she notices it is _her_ phone— the one she left all those weeks ago at the cabin.

        “You’ve had this the entire time?”

        He shrugs again, “Figured you might need it.”

        Her fingers tighten on the small device. It is not much, but it is a lifeline back home, one that will be waiting for her when she is ready for it. She opens her mouth to thank him again (because honestly who knew Murphy was such a nice guy under all that asshole?), when a flood of light blinds them both and the squeal of tires fills the night sky. A car door slams closed and not soon after a figure steps into the beams of light.

        Clarke shields her eyes to see none other than Bellamy Blake standing there. And he did not look happy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy Blake! You're not supposed to appear until the next chapter! -shrug- Oh well I guess I'll just have to adjust accordingly.


	14. Let's Hurt Tonight Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke comes face to face with some of the people she left behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love you all and you have waited so long (way longer than you really should have) I made the decision to split this chapter and post half of it early. Here's the kicker, NEXT WEEK Part 2 will also be released. No long wait this time.
> 
> I love you all so much and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

            "Bellamy." 

            It has been so long since his name has fallen her lips—the memory of him too powerful to bring to life vocally during the long nights she spent alone— but it rolls off her tongue like a poem she has long since memorized, and in a way she has. The lines by his eyes and the curve of his smile have been committed to her memory right next to the soft caress of his curls on her cheek and the weight of his hand in hers. (These were often the images that tortured her when her nightmares left her raw and open.) Seeing him here standing before her is like a dream and a nightmare.

            "What are you-"

            Her words are caught in her throat as he wordlessly walks forward. She swallows hard, mouth running dry with each step he takes to close the distance between them. His jaw is taut and his eyes remain locked on hers, the fire and intensity growing every second. He is furious and she has no right to try and calm the incoming storm; all she could do is weather the hurricane and hope she is still standing by the time it blows by.

            He closes the distance, his body so near she has to tilt her chin to meet his eyes (something she is not so sure she wanted to be doing.)

            “Bellamy?” His name comes out breathier than she expects.

            He shakes his head softly and raises his hands to cradle her cheeks. His touch is so gentle and caring she can feel the tears well in her eyes. After everything she has done, he can still hold her so lovingly and make her feel like everything will be okay. His thumbs glide over the scrapes and newly forming bruises, each swipe sending a jolt of electricity coursing through her system. She begins to sink into his touch when his thumb reaches the scar under her left eye. His movement halts and his eyes ignite once more, but this time the anger in tinged with an underlying sadness and something she is too afraid to identify. He slowly traces the faint line, his thumb barely grazing her skin, but her whole body burns.

            Their eyes lock and she inhales a sharp breath that catches in her throat. His thumb drops from the scar and moves to her cheek and then to the split in her bottom lip. She could swear that his pupils are blown the moment he traces the cut, dragging her lip with the movement. She finds herself being drawn closer, his eyes darting to her lips before flickering back to her eyes. She knows in that moment that he is going to kiss her.

            She is not sure she wants to stop him.

            “Oh god, just fuck already and put us all out of misery!” Murphy bursts out, “Jesus, I could cut the tension with a spoon over here!”

            The spell on them breaks and Clarke is not so sure if she could kiss Murphy or strangle him. Bellamy appears to settle on the latter. His hands immediately drop from her face as if her skin was burning _him_ and he whips to Murphy.

            “You son of a bitch.” His fingers dig themselves into the front of Murphy’s shirt, bunching up the material in his grasp and hauls Murphy until he is inches from his face. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t end you right now?”

            “For what?” Murphy squawks indignantly, “For making sure your girlfriend here was safe for the last week? Which have you _met_ this girl? I want my god damn medal!”

            “You call this safe?!” Bellamy shakes him, “Look at her! _Fucking look at her!_ ”

            Murphy reluctantly turns his head in Clarke’s direction and her cheeks flush with shame. She knows what they see: hair wild from the brawl, her face red with the glow of the fight and the slight sheen of sweat, and her body no doubt beginning to bloom bluish purple flowers where her opponents (and quite possibly Murphy) manages to land blows. Her body is battered and weary, but for the first time in nearly a month, it does not hurt so much to breathe. A large part of that (more than she is really willing to admit) is due to Murphy and she will be damned if Bellamy diminishes that.

            “Hey!” Clarke stalks over and shoves them apart, “That’s not fair. I’m a big girl Bellamy and can take care of myself. Murphy has nothing to do with it!”

            A look that can only be called betrayal flashes across his face and Clarke takes an instinctual step towards him, hand stretched out to reach him.

            "Bellamy…"

            He steps out of her reach, her fingertips brushing air. She pretends that it does not break her heart to see him step away when he once would have let her touch him. Then again perhaps this is her price for walking away from him first.

             "What happened, Clarke?"

            She pauses, confused at first about what he means. "You mean at the bar? There was just these guys and-"

            "No, Clarke, what happened at the police station? Why did you leave? Why didn't you _wait for me_? I was almost there- if you would have waited just a bit longer-" He cuts himself off with a swallow, "Just _why_?"

            "I-" Her throat closes up, her voice barely coming out above a strangled whine.

            The hurt is visible on his face and drips from his words, but she does not know how to answer. She did not know how to explain.

            "I-I don't know," she eventually whispers, “ First is was just Finn, but then… Then it was so much like Wells and all I could hear was the gun going off over and over again until I swear it was going to be the only sound I could ever hear. Then when I finally got to Polis and I was 16 years old listening to how my father hanged himself with his own bed sheets. And Raven! Oh my god, Raven. What did I do, Bell? I broke her heart! I killed her family! What did I do? Oh god, _what did I do?_ ”

            Tears are streaming down her face and the words start sticking in her throat.

              _What did I do?_

            So many lives ruined and she played a part in them all.

_What did I do?_

            Her breath catches and it is like the weight that had been lifted with Murphy’s words comes falling back down, dragging her into that pit she fought so hard to claw up. The earth is swallowing her whole and all she can manage is quick gasps before her lungs fill with the dirt.

            _What did I do? What did I do? What did I-_

            “Clarke!” Bellamy growls her names and her eyes snap to his. At some point Bellamy had closed the distance between them once more and slotted himself next to her body, cradling her face. “You need to breathe.”

            “I-I c-can’t.”

            He presses them closer, “Yes, you can.”

             She moves to shake her head, but his grip tightens until her gaze is forced to meet his.

             “Yes. You. Can.”

            She lets his words wash over her and opens her mouth to draw in a deep breath, the barricade finally gone and her lungs opening up enough to let the fresh air rush in.

            “There you go,” Bellamy soothes, “Deep breaths now.”

            She takes another and this time Bellamy mimics her movements, his thumbs brushing away the stray tears.

            “There you go,” his voice is a whisper but it grounds her all the same.

            They stand there for a few moments and just breathe until her heart is no longer pounding in her ears and the air no longer has to squeeze to fill her lungs. Her body sags in exhaustion and her arms hang at her sides. Bellamy does not move away. Instead, he leans his forehead against hers and slides his eyes closed.

            “Come back with me, Clarke,” He whispers. “Come back to the cabin with me and Octavia and Monty and Jasper and Miller. Come _home_.”

            Home. She can see her friends laughing and feel the warmth of their embraces as they welcome her back. She can feel the reassuring weight of Bellamy’s hand in her own and the warmth of him at her back. But she cannot go back. She is broken and everything she touches burns. She could not do that to them. _To him._

            She steps out of his touch. _She wouldn’t_.

            “I can’t.”

            “Clarke…” 

            Bellamy moves to takes a step toward her, but she backs away further, inching closer to Murphy. His eyes flicker between the two and his jaw tightens.

            “I can’t Bellamy. I can’t go back. I have to stay.  I _need_ to stay.”

            She is begging him to understand. To understand that last thing she wants to do is leave him behind, but if she stays, in the end, they will both be ash. But she can see it in his eyes that he does not understand and she does not know how to make him. Tension fills the air and nobody speaks a word. Bellamy’s eyes bore holes in her own, but she does not know what to say (she’s not sure she even has the words to try).

            Bellamy is the first to look away, his eyes dropping to the floor as he nods his head slowly.

            “Okay.”

            Clarke watches as he turns away and walks back to the car. He meets her gaze one last time before he gets in and drives off. She does not know how long she is still standing there before Murphy joins her at her side. There is no consoling hand on her shoulder, or even the faint heat of his body next to hers. She is left standing in the cold with her eyes fixed on the spot where Bellamy once stood.

            “You okay?”

            She closes her eyes and turns away.

             “Not even close.”

 

* * *

 

            She ended up staying with Murphy for another week. This time, however, instead of going out to the bar every night, Clarke spent the first few days curled up on the bathroom floor or hunched over the toilet as her system adjusted to the shock of no longer having a crutch. With the numbness gone, nothing could save her from the crash of reality and the rush of all the feelings she had locked away during those three weeks. She left herself crippled by the pain as the nightmares returned with a vengeance. She could not even close her eyes without images of blood and ash terrorizing her thoughts.

            Most nights she could not sleep and with purging the apartment of any alcohol and with nothing left to numb her, Clarke began to fill her restless nights with cleaning. At first, it started with Clarke doing her laundry every night (to be fair, she still only had a few items on hand to keep her dressed every couple days or so) then she started to add Murphy’s piles to the mix. From there she began to pick up the pieces strewn about the apartment until every piece of clothing was either in a basket waiting to be washed or folded away into his drawers. (It took Murphy a couple of days to figure out that his socks were actually in the drawer where his other socks reside.)

            After all the laundry was done, Clarke turned her attention to the trash and then to the basic griminess of the apartment. Within a few days, all she had to do was maintain the work she did to keep the place looking spotless. Cleaning became cathartic to the point that when Murphy’s place was done, she turned to Wick’s bar and picked up a few shifts bussing tables and helping Wick close after the nights were over. She even got behind the bar a few time when the night was particularly busy and Wick needed an extra hand. The work was good for her; the urge to drown herself ebbed away to a dull hum and her body began to function again. She was getting better, even though she barely slept more than a couple hours a night. She was better.

            Eventually, it was time for her to go back. Classes were starting again next week and she could not afford to skip them unless she wanted to lose her spot and consequently her scholarship. She had no other choice but to return. As the week drew to a close, Clarke found herself walking around the apartment looking for something— _anything_ — to clean. It got to the point where she was about to start scrubbing the grout in the kitchen when Murphy kicks in the door (arms full of a load of laundry) and sees her kneeling on the ground with a rag (read: old tattered shirt of Murphy’s) wadded up in her hands and a bucket next to her.

            “For fuck’s sake!” He drops the basket next to the door and shoves it closed with an elbow. “Are you about to do what I think you’re about to do?”

            Clarke looks from the rag to the bucket to back at Murphy, “Yes?”

            “Clarke.”

            “What?” She throws her hands up and drops the rag in the bucket. “I’m _cleaning_! You know that thing you haven’t done since you moved in?”

            “No, you’re obsessing. Cleaning would have stopped at the bathroom. You’ve since moved on to the _kitchen grout_. That is beyond cleaning; you’re purging.”

            “I can’t help it! If I can’t keep my hands busy that means going to sleep and I just _can’t_.”

            Murphy sighs heavily and crosses the room until he is standing inches from her. Crouching down to her level, he reaches out a hand.

            And smacks her upside the head.

            “Ow what the fu-”

            “Go to fucking sleep, Clarke.”           

            “But-”

            “Listen. Those nightmares are going to be there forever. People will try and tell you otherwise, but they are fucking lying. They may happen less and less, but they will _always_ be there. You’re going to have to face them someday and you’re already running on fumes.”

            He runs a hand over his face.

            “So go to sleep and then go back to school so I can have my apartment back again.”

            Clarke sighs, unable to deny the validity of his words. She _was_ barely able to keep her eyes open, much less function well enough to keep cleaning. Yet, the dreams that will surely be there the moment she closes her eyes make her want to try.

            “I will okay? Let me just finish.”

            “Clarke.”

            “Please?”

            Murphy sighs once more but drops the issue. Instead, he holds out his hand expectantly. “Give it to me.”

            Clarke looks from the hand to his face and back again. She tilts her head in question.

            “The rag, Clarke.”

            “Oh!” she reaches in the bucket and pulls out the wet rag to deposit it in his hand.

            He grimaces as the soapy water drenches his hand, but the moment the cloth falls from Clarke’s grasp he rises from his crouch and stalks to the window, throwing it open and tossing out the rag into the cold air below.

            “Murphy!”

            “Enough is enough, Princess. You are leaving tomorrow and I am _not_ going to drive your ass. So put on your boxing gloves because it’s time to square the fuck up.”

            “You’re an asshole you know that?”

            Murphy shrugs and closes the window, “If you wanted to be coddled you should have left with Blake.”

            Clarke flinches at the rawness of his words and her cheeks flame with the embarrassment of their truth. She stayed because she is broken and Bellamy cannot fix that, nor would she let him try. She stayed because she needed to learn to do it herself and maybe going to sleep was the next step in that direction.

            Clarke closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, Murphy is standing in front of her with his hands shoved deep into his pocket. She sticks a hand up.

            “Help me up.”

            Murphy snorts but obliges, yanking her off the floor in one fluid movement. “Are you going to bed now or do I need to slip some pills into your food like a dog?”

            Clarke’s eyes flick to the clock hanging next to the fridge to see that it was a little after 1. She would need to leave around 9 if she wanted to beat traffic and make it back with time to settle in.

            “Yeah, I’m going to try.”

 

* * *

 

            The nightmares wake her up three hours later, but this time when Murphy finds her scrubbing the kitchen floor, he turns on the coffee pot flips on the radio.

 

* * *

 

            Clarke leaves a little after 9 that morning. She packed what little items she had acquired over her two weeks in her purse (she eventually returned the shirt Murphy had stolen from that poor girls on her first night) and wrapped Bellamy’s coat tightly around her as it would go. With a final look around the tiny apartment that had been home for two weeks— and a shoo from Murphy— Clarke walks out the door not knowing when she would ever come back, nor what awaited her when she finally closes it behind her.

            The drive back to campus would delay it for a little, but the ride was shorter than she would have liked; though when she glances at the clock upon her return, the digital numbers read a little after 2. So perhaps it was not as short as she originally thought (deep down she knows 10 hours would not be long enough). When she walks into the lounge it is buzzing with students, a sharp contrast to the last time she saw it a month ago.

            The word hits her like a ton of bricks. _A month_. _Has she really been gone a month?_

She looks around at the faces in the room, but she does not recognize anyone and no one seems to recognize her. It is a small blessing and one she gratefully takes. She can barely manage to stop herself from fleeing the school grounds as it is, much less if she had to stand and pretend that everything was okay to someone she did not really care about. Well, that is if no one knew already. Her eyes flick across the room once more, but she does not see any stolen glances or pitying looks. Everyone mostly leaves her to her own devices (despite a few who throw a nod or smile in lieu of a greeting). Ducking her head down, Clarke wraps her coat tighter around her and shuffles down the hall toward her room.

            Turning the corner, a flash of brown catches in the corner of her eye and she freezes mid-step, screwing her eyes shut. She knew that brown. She had run her hands through it a million times. She knew how soft it was as it slid between her fingers, especially after a shower. She also knew that there was no possible way she could be seeing it. Her heart is pounding in her ears and she can feel her breath begin to catch in her throat.

            _He’s not here, Clarke. He’s not here_.

            It takes another moment before she is able to open her eyes and sure enough her doorway stands free of any flash of brown. Her heart breaks a little anyway.

            She closes the distance and pulls free her keys from her pocket, waving the little black circle next to the sensor. She audibly hears the lock shift open and reaches for the door handle. Yet, the moment her fingers brush the metal she pulls back just an inch. Once she opens that door there would be no turning back. She would have to face all the memories plastered on her walls of Finn, of Wells, of her dad that she had been unable to take down the first time. In that room, she will be surrounded by tokens and trinkets of all those people she lost with no one but herself to turn to. Once she pulled that handle, it would mean stepping into the ring until the bell rang or she finally tapped out.

            _Put on your boxing gloves because it’s time to square the fuck up._

Murphy’s words tug at the corner of her lips and she shakes her head softly to herself. She already made that decision when she closed the door to the apartment this morning. There is no more turning back for her. She reaches for the handle.

            The phone decides in that moment to buzz in her pocket, the sound so unfamiliar it nearly makes her jump out of her skin. After the initial heart attack settles down, Clarke rests her head against the door, laughter bubbling up her throat and squeezing past her lips. Maybe it was the absurd nature of her situation or the fact of how pathetic she was being for contemplating running away when she drove 5 hours just to be scared off by a _door handle_ , but soon her body is shaking with laughter and tears were spilling down her face. She is laughing so hard her knees give out and she has to slide to the floor, twisting so her back could rest against the wood of the door. After a minute or so, the laughter subsides and she wipes her eyes dry.

            Her phone buzzes again and this time she digs it out of her pocket. It is a text message from Murphy. Swiping in her lock pattern, she thumbs down the notification menu to open the message when the other notifications catch her eye. There are a handful of messages from Finn followed by a couple from some unknown number and a few from her friends (she even had a message from her mother, which she promptly swiped away). The name that stands out amongst them all is Bellamy’s with a little voicemail icon with an 11 next to it.

            Her finger hovers over the name, her heart both craving the sound of his voice and afraid of what his words will do to her. She clicks on Murphy’s name instead (which had gained at least two new messages since she unlocked the phone).

**My apartment is too clean I can’t find anything**

**Did you steal my Hollywood Undead shirt? You fucking did, didn’t you?**

**I miss your car. Can I borrow it to race?**

**I’m bored. Let’s go to the bar**

**On you ofc**

Clarke can’t help the faint smile that tugs on her face. She quickly types a response and shoves the device back into her pocket (which admittedly is a lot harder to do sitting down). Pushing herself off the ground and into an upright position, she waves her keys in front of the sensor and unlocks the door. This time, her fingers wrap around the metal and twist it open. The door swings open, sending a sliver of light into the otherwise dimmed room. A wave of stale air rushes past her as fresh air fills its place.

            The room smelled of dust and heartbreak (which coincidentally smells like old vodka and candy wrappers).  It also looks exactly how she left it that day with Octavia. Her bed sheets are wrinkled from where Octavia was perched on the bed as she looked over the clothes she picked out from Clarke’s wardrobe. Her closet doors are still thrown open with empty hangers poking out between shirts and jackets. That day felt like years ago and she was not quite sure she even remembered the person who walked out that door. Maybe she will again or maybe that version of herself is gone forever; either way, she is going to need to pick up the pieces of herself before she will know.

            Her phone buzzes once again, but this time it is quickly followed by the tune of “So Criminal” (Wick’s idea of a joke when he got his hands on Clarke’s phone one shift) signaling that she is getting a call. Without even looking she swipes to accept the call.

            “Yes, Murphy?”

            “Why not?” He whines.

            “Because I literally just drove 5 hours _away_ from you,” Clarke rolls her eyes and flips on the lights, bathing the room in a harsh fluorescent, “Why would I want to come back?”

            “That sounds like a you problem.”

            “Fuck off Murphy. Go drink by yourself. Or don’t, seeing how it is only 2 in the afternoon.”

            “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere. Besides, you never had a problem with day drinking before.”

            “Yeah, it’s almost like I was suffering from crippling depression and trying to drown myself in booze.”

            “Exactly. Here’s to day drinking. You going to join me?”

            “No.”

            “You suck.”

            Clarke snorts at that, “Look, if you somehow managed to make it down here on Friday then maybe, _maybe_ , I’ll join you for a drink.” She shifts the phone to her other ear, “Something tells me that I’m going to need it anyways.”

            Murphy groans, “Friday? That’s so far!”

            “Take it or leave it.”

            Murphy makes a noncommittal noise before hanging up as quickly as he called. Clarke lowers the phone and shakes her head. She will probably see him before the week is up if the two weeks she spent with him has taught her anything about him. Letting loose a big sigh, she takes another look around the room and drops her bag on the desk just right of her door. As she makes her way towards her bed, she yanks at the zipper of her boots until she can pull her feet free and letting them drop where they may. When her knees hit the edge of her mattress, she lets her body flop down, bouncing a little before the bed settles.

            She lays there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around her. Murmurs of commotion from the common lounge waft into her room, but they are nothing more than a dull mumble that she easily drowns out, much like her own heartbeat or the rhythm of her breath.  She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling, watching dust particles float around in the empty space where the light hits. It is in this silence that her thoughts become the loudest.

            She cannot help but think about the irony of how just a few hours ago she could not stop cleaning and now she could not be bothered in the least to dust— let alone clean— her room. She turns her head and stares at the phone lying in the palm of her hand. The little flashing blue light in the left corner stares at her accusingly. She flips the device over and turns her back to it.

            Then she rolls back and scoops it up again, unlocking it as she raises it to her face. Bellamy’s messages stare back at her. Her finger hovers over the first message. It is timestamped a little after midnight on New Years, just after she had torn out of the cabin for the last time. She taps the notification and shakily brings the phone to her ear. Bellamy’s voice fills the silence in seconds.

            “Clarke!”

            The sound of her name sends a shiver down her spine and she pauses the message. Lowering the phone, her eyes fall on the screen. Bellamy’s smile meets her gaze. She remembers the day she took the picture. It had been during that three day period before Murphy had shown up and Octavia, Bellamy, and she had spent the entire day dressed in the pajamas bunched up on the couch. They watched the snow fall outside the window from the safety of their warm pile of blankets, the TV on in the background, but they were not really paying any attention to it. Instead, they spent the time laughing and trading memories back and forth, some about the early days in the Blake cabin with their mother and some about the adventures she had with Wells or her dad. She remembers not being able to keep the smile from her face.

            As one could expect, one of the notorious Blake sibling fights broke out and Clarke had to run for cover from the flying pillows and popcorn kernels. She had taken her phone out to capture the ridiculous (and heartwarming) moment when she called out Bellamy’s name to get him to look her way. When he turned, he had a smile on his face that took her breath away. His grin was spread so wide the laugh line in his cheeks were stark and prominent and his eyes shined with amusement, setting the freckles splattered over his nose on fire until they sparkled like stars.

            It was easily one of the most beautiful things she had seen. She took the picture immediately.

            She looks at that smile now and slowly sees it slip from his face only for it to fade into the open look of hurt the moment she told him she was staying. She watches as the smile fades into the jaw tight mask of indifference.

            She sets the phone back down on the bed and hits play, letting his voice fill the silence once more.

            “Clarke! Pick up the phone! Please, _please_ , pick up the phone”

            He is out of breath and his words are hurried as if he had just run a mile. If she listened close enough, she could hear the faint sound of her friends in the background as if they were at a distance.

            “You’re scaring me— you’re scaring _everyone_. Please answer.”

            The message clicks off and she clicks the next one.

            “Jesus Clarke, what were you thinking driving off like that? God, we had so much to drink and then whatever that phone call about Finn was-” he takes a sharp and shallow breath, “What if something happens to you? Please be okay. Call me.”

            “You left your phone. Of course, you left your fucking phone. Miller and Monty found it on the landing after we got back to the cabin. Jesus Christ Clarke, I’m going out of my fucking mind-”

            There is a pause in the line and she can hear Monty’s voice in the background.

            “Bellamy! We’ve got it! She’s heading to Polis police station!”

            “Polis? Fuck!” His voice becomes clearer as he directs it back into the receiver, “Wait for me, Clarke. I know… I know you can’t get this right now, but please just wait for me.”

            “You left. Why did you leave? I was almost there Clarke. If you _just_ waited a few more minutes I would have-” his voice breaks off and there is a pause, “Just why?”

            “Hey,” his voice is ragged and gruff, much like it gets when they stayed up too late in the night, “How are you? I’m sorry that’s a shitty question, of course, you’re not okay. Are you safe at least? God, I hope you are. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t. Be safe, okay?”

            “I don’t even know what I’m still calling and leaving messages for you. I can hear your phone buzzing against the wood of my nightstand, but I still let it ring. I can’t even blame it on wanting to hear your voice because you never changed that stupid default message. I’ve heard your number so many times I practically have it memorized. Do you want to hear it?”

            The sound of a bed creaking swallows his words.

            “Be safe, Clarke.”

            “Everyone left today and I’m pretty sure either Jasper or Monty took your phone with them. It’s so weird not hearing it buzz on my nightstand or feel the vibrations against my chest. It’s almost like you could be getting these messages. I know you’re not, but it’s nice to pretend. Maybe then I wouldn’t seem so pathetic leaving messages no one will hear. Be safe, Clarke.”

            “It’s been a week and no one’s heard a thing from you. You could be dead in a ditch for all we know.” A pause. “Please don’t be dead in a ditch. Stay safe, Clarke.”

            “The house is empty without you filling the space between me and O. Don’t get me wrong, I love O more than anything in this world, but when you were here it- It was like I finally had someone who just got it. We may not have agreed on everything— god knows we wasted plenty of time arguing over something or another, but it never felt like you weren’t on my side. You fit into our lives so easily and now you’re just gone.” There is a dark chuckle, “Once I would have wished for that, but now- Now I’m not so sure. Miss you Clarke. Stay safe.”

            “You’re safe, thank god. I don’t care if I have to go to every last hole Murphy has ever _visited_ , I’m going to find you and then I’m going to bring you home. Wait for me this time okay? Stay safe, Clarke. I’m on my way.”

            “I’m driving right now and probably shouldn’t be on the phone, but you’re so _close_ , Clarke. It took nearly a week to track that bastard down, but I’m finally coming and when I see you again I- … Just wait for me okay? This time I’m not letting you slip between my fingers. See you soon, Clarke.”

            The final message clicks off and the room is bathed in silence once more. Tears drip off the bridge of her nose and land on the screen of her phone. A heavy weight settles on her chest and she can feel her lungs squeeze under the pressure. She rolls onto her other side and closes her eyes, his final words echoing in her ear.

            _Be safe. I’m coming for you. Wait for me. I’m not letting you slip between my fingers._

            She sees his harden gaze and she is not so sure she can fix this one or if she even deserves to try.

 

* * *

 

            If there is one thing that nearly two months of drinking and doing absolutely nothing prepares you less for, it is returning to a full load of classes for an already demanding major (not to mention the time-consuming nature of her _second_ major). To say that her first day of classes was stressful would be an understatement.

            While her classes gave structure to her life (something she was in desperate need of), by the end of her first day there was an exhaustion set deep within her bones. The peace of anonymity she once had was gone the moment she walked into her first class on Monday morning. When she first stepped into the class, the room was filled with the quiet murmur of chatter among her classmates, but the moment her presence was detected, that quiet murmur dropped to dead silence.

            Now Finn may not have been a science major like her, Jasper, and Monty, but everyone in the science department knew Finn Collins. _Everyone_ knew Finn Collins. Finn was anything but shy; he had this attraction that drew people like magnets and if he did not already know someone, it was only a matter of days before they too would be pulled in by his gravity. It was one of the things Clarke loved about him. He seemed to be so filled with life and had room in his heart for anyone he met (then again maybe that was his problem). So it only made sense that when Clarke started dating Finn, everyone began to learn her name. And when Raven showed up and Finn started to be seen hanging around her, everyone took noticed. Now it seems that everyone knew Finn was dead and she was to blame.

            So when the whispers began and people started stealing looks left and right, Clarke ducked her head low and sank down into a seat at the back of the room. The whispers died down when the professor walked into the room, but the looks never did.

            Her day only got worse the moment she walked into her Astronomy class and Raven was sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty room. Clarke froze in her tracks, hoping that the girl was not alerted to her presence (mostly so she could slip in through the back unnoticed). Of course, that is the exact moment Raven picked her eyes off the table and made eye contact. The moment their eyes met, Clarke could see the hatred glaze over.

            Her heart fell into her stomach as she stood frozen to the ground. Raven, on the other hand, shot out of her seat, her hands balled into fists and her lips curled into a sneer. Clarke was positive they were about to have another repeat performance of the police station, but before Raven could even open her mouth,  a couple of girls walked into the room, oblivious to the growing tension. They stopped and looked nervously between the two other girls before awkwardly shuffling out of the room once more. The intrusion, thankfully, must have deterred Raven enough from continuing because she lowered herself back into her seat and pointedly ignored Clarke for the rest of the class period.  As first days go, it was pretty terrible.  

            Yet, despite her first day being something from her nightmares, Clarke dreads her second day more. Theoretically, her Tuesdays should be great; she only has one class in the afternoon and then is free to do whatever she pleased for the rest of the day (which will probably go toward work and homework).  A slow day sounded great at first, but now there is a flaw in her plan; she shares the class with Monty and Jasper.

            Clarke has been back for approximately two days and in those two days, she has had minimal interaction with anyone that was not either her professor or a cafeteria staff member. She went to great lengths to ensure this from taking her meals back to her room and keeping her door locked when she was in there. Even when she had to go to the student union to grab some files, she did it late at night when she was sure no one else would be there. She wanted to be alone.

            It was not that she did not miss her friends (god does she miss them) or that she was not lonely, rather Clarke needed to learn to be by herself again without drowning.  Having Murphy for those last two weeks was great because she could not have pulled herself out of that spiral without his help, but she also became dependent on it. He may have spoken little and did little other than antagonize her every chance he got, but just having him there gave her something to lean on. Now she had to learn to live without that because while her friends would gladly fill that role, she did not want to be dependent on that support forever. If she was going to come out of this alive, she needed to do it on her own two feet.

            More than that facing them meant answering questions she either did not have answers to or couldn’t put them into words. Her friends may understand her better than anyone else in the world (well, almost anyone), but even they couldn’t understand why she left and why she stays away.

            But now she cannot run anymore.

            She is standing in the hallway clenching and unclenching her fingers around the strap of her bag as she stares at the classroom door. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Jasper and Monty lay on the other side of that door. She paces.

            She knows this because during their first year, the duo was constantly late to their classes and their professor threatened to kick them from the class if they were late one more time. Since then, they are always the first ones in the room, usually grabbing seats for whatever friends they had in that class. Clarke wonders if they bothered to save her a seat this time (she’s not sure which outcome will break her heart more).

            “Okay, Clarke. You can do this!” She mumbles to herself, “Just walk right in and say… Oh god, what do I say?”

            She shakes her head and stops pacing.

            “Okay forget saying anything. Just walk in and sit down. Maybe they won’t even notice you walking in…”

            Even as the words tumble out of her mouth she knows they are not true. Still, she had no other option than to step through that door and accept whatever may come. Steeling her nerves she walks into the room and immediately all eyes turn on her. A hush falls over the room and Clarke can feel holes being bored into her skin. The typical murmur of whispers washes over the room and Clarke feels ready to run.

            The sound of metal crashing against the linoleum floor cuts the silence and kills the whispers. Everyone’s heads (including Clarke’s) whip to the back corner of the room where the noise originated. Jasper stands with his palms pressed flat on the lab table, his shaggy hair hiding his face from view. Next to him Monty sits quietly, his face a blank mask she cannot read. The need to escape gets stronger.

            She opens her mouth to say _something_ when Jasper pushes away from the table and stalks across the room until he is standing inches from her. Her mouth clicks shut and she waits for him to say whatever it is he wants to say to her. To her surprise, he doesn’t say anything at all. His arms wrap around her and fold her against his chest in a tight embrace. He buries his faces into her hair and squeezes so tight all circulation is cut off. She can’t really bring herself to care.

            “You’re the worst fucking person in the world, Clarke.” He mumbles into her neck, “You’re never allowed to do that again, you hear me?”

            Tears are forming in her eyes and she wraps her arms around him, returning his embrace with equal vigor. “I’m sorry.”

            He shakes his head, pulling away slightly, “No, that’s not good enough, Clarke. Sorry can’t fix this. Sorry doesn’t take back the month we spent going out our minds trying to find you.” His eyes shine with tears, “We thought we lost you too.”                       

            “You did,” she admits quietly, “At least for a little.”

            “Clarke-”

            “No, Jas. It was bad this time. Worse than Wells. I was in a dark place, Jas, and wasn’t sure I was going to make it back out.”

            “And now?” They both turn to see Monty standing at their side, arms wrapped around his body.

            Clarke detangles herself from Jasper, “I’m trying.”   

            Monty nods in acceptance, “Okay.”

            “Okay?” Clarke can feel her muscles sag, “That’s it?”

            “I can’t expect you to be alright, Clarke. As mad as I am, as mad as we both are,” he waves a hand between him and Jasper, “We can’t expect that of you. You were hurting— _are_ hurting and even though you made some bad decisions that hurt us, we just want you to be alright. We _love_ you, Clarke. Trying is okay.”

            The tears slip free and she immediately reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He tentatively lays his own on tops of hers and pulls her closer. Jasper, feeling left out or perhaps wanting to express his support as well, wraps himself around the two of them.

            “I missed you,” she says into his chest.

            “Next time don’t leave us behind then,” Jasper quips, pulling them a little tighter together.

            “I’ll try. I love you.”

            “We love you too, Clarke.” They say in unison.

            “Well this is all very touching and all, but I have a class to conduct if you don’t mind.”

            They all whip around to see their professor standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and a stern look on her face. The trio quickly springs apart and issues their apologies.

            “Sorry Professor Cerra.”

            “Yeah, I’ll bet.” She points an accusing finger at them, “No funny business this semester. I’ve had enough of your shenanigans the past two classes I’ve had you three for. I’m especially talking to you, Mr. Jordan.”

            Jasper raises three fingers to his temple in a scout’s salute, “Yes M’am!”

            Jasper and Monty both turn around to go back to their seats, when Monty reaches back for Clarke’s hand. “Come on, we saved you a seat.”

            Her heart swells and breaks a little. After everything, they were still waiting for her. She wonders how she ever left them in the first place.

            “Yeah, I’m coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and if you want to keep up with the progress of the next part or want to ask me anything, don't be afraid to leave a comment or come talk to me on Tumblr (Same name as my Ao3 username).
> 
> I love you all and you keep me wanting to do better and writing more. I'll see you all soon!


	15. Let's Hurt Tonight Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time there is no running away. Clarke must face the one person whose disappearance has haunted her the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.

            After class, Monty and Jasper thought it would only be right to celebrate their reunion by going to the Dropship. At first, Clarke was reluctant to go, not wanting to overwhelm herself with people, but Jasper and Monty insisted that they would only stay long enough to get their coffee and go. After that, it was hard to say no, but after walking through the doors of the coffee shop, she is almost wishing she had.

            Working the bar is none other than Lincoln and perched behind him on the counter is Octavia. And she did not look happy to see Clarke.

            “Well crap,” Jasper mutters under his breath.

            “You could say that again.” Clarke sighs.

            “We could go to Grounders instead?”

            “No, I’m going to have to face them eventually.” She gives them a weak smile, “What does it matter if I do it now or later?”

            Jasper and Monty share a nervous look, but say nothing as she makes her way over to the bar. She waits patiently as Lincoln finishes up with a couple of customers before she slides onto one of the barstools.

            “Hey, Lincoln.”

            “Clarke, hey. How are you?”

             Lincoln’s voice is calm and unwavering, but his eyes flick over her new scar and the last few remnants she has of the bruises (most had faded to nothing, but a few still clung stubbornly to her skin).  Clarke wills herself not to fold under his gaze and meets it head on.

            “I’ve been…” She pauses, “I could be better.”

            Lincoln’s eyes soften, “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay,” Clarke awkwardly shrugs and looks down.

            “Fuck this.” Octavia jumps down from the counter, yanking her bag with her, “I’ll see you later, Linc.”

            Clarke’s eyes immediately snap to the movement, but quickly learn that is a mistake. Octavia’s eyes burn with rage and they glare daggers into Clarke’s until she lowers them down onto the bar. Planting a kiss on Lincoln’s cheek, Octavia walks around the bar, throwing her bag over her shoulder as she goes. She gives a quick nod to Jasper and Monty but otherwise says nothing more. She walks towards the door and pulls it open, causing a small bell to chime (Anya had it installed after getting mad at customers for ringing the bell on the counter one too many times when she was in the back). When the bell rings, Clarke tears her eyes away from the bar and to the door. Octavia is standing in the doorway, her eyes softer than before as she meets Clarke’s eyes. With a shake of her head, she turns around and walks away, the bell ringing as the door closes behind her. Clarke watches until the bell stops swaying.

            “Jasper and Monty weren’t the only ones you left behind. We were all your friends, Clarke and we all felt your disappearance.”

            “I know,” she turns around, tears stinging the edge of her eyes, “I’m sorry.”

            Lincoln’s features soften and he leans against the counter, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder.

            “I don’t say this to make you feel bad, Clarke. You were dealing with a pain that no one could understand and I cannot blame you for trying to cope with that in your own way— even if I disagree with your method. I just-” Lincoln looks at the door, “I’m just trying to say that she’s hurting too.”

            Clarke feels her heart clench in her chest and the vulnerable look in Octavia’s eyes flash in her mind. She lays a hand over his.

             “I know.”

             “Thank you.” He turns back to her, giving her a soft smile, “You know I’ve got your back right? We all do.”

            Clarke looks at Jasper and Monty who smile back at her, “Yeah I think I’m starting to get that.”

            Lincoln leans back and wraps his knuckles against the counter, his smile growing wider. “What can I get you, Clarke?”

            “I’ll take a Lincoln special,” Clarke hums, settling into her seat.

            “Oo! Make that double,” Jasper yips, jumping onto the seat to her right.

            “One for me too,” Monty says, sliding onto the one at Jasper’s left.

            Lincoln chuckles to himself, “Three specials coming right up!”

            He turns around and starts rummaging for the ingredients. Within minutes he turns around with three tall glasses of root beer floats and displays them before the trio.

            “Yes!” Jasper immediately starts digging into his, followed by Monty with a soft shake of his head.

            Clarke rolls her eyes and slides Lincoln the money for the drinks. “Thanks, Lincoln. You know, for everything.”

            He squeezes her hand, “Welcome back Clarke.”

            She is looking at her friends bicker back and forth about something their professor had said in class today and she cannot help the warmth flooding her system despite the coolness of the ice cream sliding down her throat. Lincoln has long since turned back to tend to another patron when Clarke whispers her response back.

            “It’s good to be back.”

 

* * *

 

            When Clarke finally gets back to her room, her body sags against the mattress and she finds herself staring at the ceiling once again. As the noise of the world sinks to a low buzz, her thoughts raise in volume, but this time when images of Bellamy’s harden face and Octavia’s vulnerable gaze flit across her mind, they are paired with Jasper’s smile and the feeling of his and Monty’s arms wrapped tightly around her body. They are paired with one of Murphy’s quips and Lincoln’s hand on her shoulder.

            She rolls onto her side and looks at the screen of her phone. She hears Bellamy’s voice telling her to stay safe and hears Jasper’s fear on repeat.

            _We thought we lost you too_.

            She needed to do better. She _owed_ that to them, or to at least try.  The nightmares still claw at the edge of her mind and when she closes her eyes, they are right there to greet her, sleep eluding her despite her body barely clinging on to the few hours she gets before nightmares jostle her awake. But, if today has taught her anything, it is that trying to figure herself out in solitude is not going to work. To really heal, she needs to face the consequences of her actions and that means facing those she left behind. That means facing Bellamy. She grabs the phone and brings it to her chest, rolling onto her back and bringing her eyes to the ceiling.

            She just needs to figure out how.

 

* * *

 

            Clarke quickly realized that once she stopped actively avoiding people, the easier it came to be left alone. In the past few days since her run in with Octavia at the Dropship, Clarke has since to have a run in with the rest of her friends. In fact, she has to go out of her way to have contact with _anyone_. She regularly makes it a point to message Jasper and Monty every day to have dinner and go to the Dropship after their class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Yet, despite all her attempts, she has yet to run into the one person she truly needed to see.

            Nearly a couple weeks into the semester and Clarke has not heard a single word, let alone seen Bellamy anywhere. The only clue she had that he was still on campus were the snippets of information she could weasel out of Jasper and Monty during their daily dinners. She tried not to pester them too much, but having him so close yet so infinitely distant made her antsy. When she was away, it was easier; his ghostly presence would haunt her waking thoughts late in the nights, but now that she heard the messages he left her (having listened to them every night on repeat), the ache to see him has grown.

            Yet, a part of her is secretly thrilled at the fact that she can prolong the inevitable screaming match that will incur when they finally meet. But another part of her— a deeper, darker part— tells her that the longer she waits, the further the rift will grow. She does not know if she can even repair the damage that has been done and that fear is enough to make her want to stay away. But she doesn’t. Instead, Clarke spends every ounce of free time she has in the student union. Whether it is the five minutes she has between classes or several hours after the last of her classes has finished, Clarke is rarely seen outside the student union, all in hopes of just catching a glimpse of that mop of black curls or to hear the deep rumble of his voice (God how she missed his voice).

            But he never comes.

            She waits and waits, but entering into her third Monday of the semester and she has yet to see the person she yearns to the most. By now she has encounter almost everyone she left behind (she even had a really awkward conversation with Lexa), but still, Bellamy remained a ghost. On the end of her third Monday, she looks over to Miller who shrugs his shoulders.

            Out of all of Clarke’s reunions with her friends, her reunion with Miller was perhaps the most anticlimactic. She had walked into the student union one day and Miller was leaning against his desk reading through some papers. He looked up, meeting her eye and shakes his head.

            “I should have given you the talk.”

            Clarke flinches, “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

            “But you did.”

            “Yeah, I did,” she lowers her eyes and shuffles to her desk, dropping her bag onto the surface with a thud that fills the silence between them.

            “Are you going to fix it?”

            She looks up and meets his gaze, “Can I?”

            He shakes his head and sets down the papers he was reading. Slinging a strap of his backpack over his shoulder, he turns to leave.

            “You’re both idiots.”

            He is almost out the door when he hangs back for a second and turns his head to the side.

            “I’m glad you’re okay, Clarke. I really am. Just try not to break my best friend again, okay?”

            He walked away and never brought up the conversation again. Clarke wasn’t sure if she was relieved or anxious about this (let’s be honest she could really use the extra help). One thing she did notice, however, is that after that day Miller started spending more time in the student union alongside her, perhaps as a show of solidarity or maybe just to make sure that she really did not screw things up even more. She is thankful regardless.

            So each day Clarke waited and waited for a moment that never came. That is until it did at the end of her third week. She is sitting in her Molecular Biology lecture, squished between Jasper and Monty when her phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up. At first, she was just going to ignore it, but the dean’s name in an email caught her eye and she found herself reaching for the device instead. As covertly as she could, she unlocks the phone and opens the email. Her eyes barely finish skimming over it before she is pushing away from the table and reaching for her bag. Jasper and Monty shoot her concerned looks, but she shakes her head and quickly shuffles out the room, ignoring the calls from her professor behind her. The moment the door closes, she takes off.

            All she can hear is the beating of her heart in her ears and the slap of her feet on the concrete. Her lungs wheeze for air, but she keeps pushing further and further toward the student union, the words of the email echoing in her head.

            _Dear Student Union members,_

_In light of recent events, President Bellamy Blake has been asked to step down from his position._

            Clarke rips open the door and comes face to face with the one person she has been waiting for.

            _Effective immediately_.

            “Bellamy.”

             It is the first time she has spoken his name aloud in the time she’s been back and he won’t even look at her. Instead, he busies himself with piling items from his desk into a small box. She takes a step closer inside.

            “Bellamy.”

            His eyes remained fixed to the desk. She steps closer and closer until she is close enough to touch.

            “Bellamy, _please_.”

            He turns his gaze to her and she really sees him for the first time. His body is tense with every muscle looking ready to jump at the slightest touch. Dark circles line the bottom of his eyes and his face looks thinner with stubble covering his entire jaw, but his eyes harsher and his mouth set in a firm line. His eyes finally find hers and she comes face to face with the biggest casualty of it all. They no longer look at hers the same. She cannot read what is going on in his mind and that terrifies her.

            “What do you want Clarke? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

            “How do you-” she shakes her head, “Never mind. Bellamy, what is going on? Why are you being removed as president?”

            His shoulders square and he finally stops sorting items into the box, but only for a moment. “It doesn’t matter.”

            Clarke is about to open her mouth when the door is thrown open once more and Miller rushes in, nearly as out of breath as Clarke was.

            “Bellamy dude-”

            But Clarke was not done. Bellamy had run from her (and she from him) for far too long and it was time they faced it all.

            “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course, it matters, Bellamy!”

            “Just drop it.” His voice is clipped and short.

            “ _Why?_ Look, Bellamy, I get that I haven’t been the most stable for these past few months, but don’t for a second think that I don’t care about what’s going on with the union and you. ” She lays a tentative hand on his shoulder, his arm flinching at the contact. “If you just tell me what’s going on, I’m sure we can fix whatever is-”

            Bellamy turns and presses his palms flat against the desk, “We? What ‘we’ is there Clarke? You left ‘we’ the moment you walked away almost two months ago. There is no _we_.”

            “I’m sorry for the way I left, Bellamy but-”

            “That’s right, Clarke. _You_ left. _You_ walked away!”

            “Is that what this is about? You won’t talk to me because I left?” She takes a step back, “Why I left has _nothing_ to do with what’s going on now.”

            “Oh is that right?” he scoffs.

            “Yeah. That’s right.” She crosses her arms, “ _We_ may have personal issues going on right now, but this is _business_ , Bellamy. Now, will you please tell me what is going on so we can try to figure out our next move?”

            Bellamy slams his hands against the wood and whirls on her, “God that is so typical of you!”

            “Oh, please enlighten me.” She can feel anger bubbling up her chest and her fingers dig deep into the flesh of her arm, nails carving half moons in their wake.

            “Guys,” Miller jumps in, looking around the room nervously, “Maybe you can continue this somewhere a little more private?”

            “No, I want to hear what he has to say,” she turns to Bellamy, “Go on Bellamy. Tell me what’s so typical of me.”

            Bellamy runs a hand through his hair, tugging harshly at its roots, “You think you can just waltz back in here and act like you still run the joint? Well, news flash Clarke! You don’t!”

            “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if you would get off your high horse and just _talk_ to me.”

            “Oh, that’s rich coming from you!” He towers over her, his body closer to hers than it has been since that night at the bar, “Who was it that _abandoned_ all her friends for a month? Who was it that let everyone believe she was most likely dead because she couldn’t be bothered to pick up a fucking phone?”

            “That’s right, Bellamy, I did!” She closes the last space between them, tilting her chin just so until her eyes stare defiantly into his, “Why not? Tell me one fucking reason why I should have stayed when _none_ of you would have understood a single god damn thing about what happening with me? _Why_ should I have stayed?”

            They stare at each other for a long time, both their chest heaving with labored breaths and their knuckles white.  This is not how things were supposed to turn out. Of all the things Clarke wanted to say— needed to say — to Bellamy in this exact situation, starting a screaming match with him in the middle of the student union was not how she planned this to go (not that she had much of a plan, to begin with). She was supposed to tell him that she is broken but trying. She was supposed to tell him that most nights she could only fall asleep (if only for a brief period of time) by listening to the messages he left her because they made her _want_ to try. She was supposed to tell him anything than what she did. But her words are lost under the drumbeat of battle pounding in her ears and the stab of pain digging into her palms. Her  I’m sorry’s get shoved behind her wall of pride and his words turn to arrows aiming for her heart.  This is not how things were supposed to turn out, but here they are, eyes hard and both unsure of how to accept that they are strangers now.

            “Go to hell, Clarke.” Bellamy finally breaths, stepping away to grab his box and stalking out of the student union.

            “Fine.”

            Clarke watches him leave, tears stinging the corners of her eyes and she sinks down onto the desk, bringing a hand to cover her eyes. She tries to hold them at bay, but soon the tears are leaking down her face and her chest constricts, cutting her breaths into choppy gasps. A warm arm wraps around her shoulders and she instinctively turns into its embrace, burying her face into a solid chest.

            “Come on, let’s go somewhere a little more private,” Miller’s voice soothes as he coaxes her off the desk and towards the door.

            She follows him wordlessly as he leads her through campus until they find a bench secluded from prying eyes and ears, but by then her tears have stopped and her breathing returned to normal. Still, he waits patiently until she is ready to talk.

            Clarke sighs and drops her head into her hands, “Thank you.”

            “Don’t mention it. You needed someone more than he did right now.”

            Clarke shakes her head, “I’m not so sure about that. Sometimes you can’t fix what’s already broken.”

            Miller hums in response, leaning back against the bench and folding his arms behind his head.

            “He got caught fighting.”

            Clarke’s head snaps up.

             “I’m not sure if you noticed his hands or not, but his knuckles are bruised from punching a kid in his face earlier this afternoon.” Miller’s eyes slide to hers, “Security had to pull him off and that’s how the dean found out.”

            “Why?”

            Miller lifts his head up, “Are you sure you want to know?”

            She shakes her head, “Tell me regardless.”

            “He overheard some junior talking about you. He said you killed Finn.”

            The whispers that have been following her the moment she walked into that first class on Monday morning caress her mind, _Killer. She’s a killer_.

            “He was right.”

            Miller snorts, “Yeah well try telling that to Bellamy. I haven’t seen him lift a kid that fast since Octavia brought around a guy for the first time.”

            “He shouldn’t have bothered,” she curls in on herself, “I’m not worth the trouble. Besides, like I said, he was right.”

            Miller shakes his head, “You’re both idiots. Go talk to him.”

            “I tried that remember? It didn’t exactly end well.”

            “No, you both yelled at each other and aimed for where it hurt the most. Go _talk_ to him. Preferably in a quiet tone and in a place where people aren’t subject to your dirty laundry.”

            Clarke shakes her head, “He won’t talk to me.”

            Miller gets up and shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets, “Make him.”

 

* * *

 

            Despite Miller’s nonchalant solution to the problem, getting Bellamy to talk to her is not as easy as the problem is made out to be.  While Clarke wants nothing more than to fix what is broken between them, or even _start_ to mend it, she does not know how. Sometimes she even wonders if she deserves to. Everyone tells her that she’s stupid for believing so, but that dark little whisper is always there when they are gone and she is alone (it only gets louder late at night) and she starts to wonder if she is really stupid at all. Her mind is a constant state of war and some days she wins, going out of her way to spend times in the places Bellamy is known to frequent, and other days she finds herself lying alone in her room listening to his messages over and over again, wondering if that will be the only way she ever hears his voice again.

            The other complication is Clarke’s respect for Bellamy and her unwillingness to violate the one rule he had set between them: to leave him alone. A few hours after their argument, Jasper had confided in her that he had given Bellamy her class schedule some weeks prior, but had thought that Bellamy planned to use them as a way of getting her to talk to him. Instead, he used it as a means to ensure that they would never run into each other. The only reason she caught him at all is because she had run out of her class. Bellamy did not want to see her and she was not sure she had the right to try and change his mind.

            Today happened to be one of the days where Clarke did not see much of point in fighting. After sitting through class with her friends and begging off their invites to join them at the Dropship, Clarke found herself gravitating to the more secluded parts of campus nearing the outskirts of the forest. In the winter months it has become much too cold for her to settle herself at the base of a tree like she once did during her last semester (snowfall had blanketed the earth in a freezing layer of white and the chilling breeze made it impossible to stay out for more than a couple hours at a time), but lately she has been drawn to her old haunt anyways.

            Even now she finds herself wandering among the tree in search of her particular perch for that day. In the end, a few minutes into the forest, she discovers a tree whose roots have breached the earth and have spread widely across the ground. She clears away a nook for herself on one of the roots and carefully settles her bag between the base of her spine and the trunk of the tree. Reaching into the pocket of her cardigan, Clarke pulls out the small black book that has not left her side in days. Her finger runs over the impression of the small five-pointed crown resting in the middle of its cover. She had discovered it outside her door the morning after her fight with Bellamy; it resting on top of the wooden box containing her color pencils. They had not been packed away with the rest of her things (which Monty had delivered the night of their reunion) and she could only think of one place where it would have been outside of her own room, but the thought pained her more than she cared to admit.

            With her sketchbook back in her hands, her fingers begin to itch for the familiar weight of a pencil and the need to release her mind onto the page. So she gravitated to the forest and spilled the things she could never say on a blank canvas. She drew her father’s smile and the cold lifeless eyes that contradicted each other. She drew Wells’ face half twisted in agony and the other in bright joy. She drew Finn’s loving hands outstretched for her own and with a shadow of 5 figures looming in the background. Most of all she drew Bellamy. She drew his hands, his smile, the way his freckles swept across his face and shoulders, and his pleading eyes. All the things that haunted her spilled onto the page day after day, sometimes depicting the nightmares behind her closed eyes and other times the smiles and lovingness she will never experience again. It is cathartic in a way cleaning and drinking never was and in the couple of hours she would slip away for, she found a peace that she had not known since she left Murphy’s apartment.

            However, it did not seem that Clarke was destined for that peace today. She had barely settled into her spot and cracked open the notebook to a blank page when her phone started blaring from her pocket. Unable to ignore the call, she quickly digs it out and glances at the screen. The name staring back at her was not one she would have ever expected. Hesitantly, she accepts the call and brings the phone to her ear.

            “Hello?”

            “It’s Octavia,” her voice is gruff and dripping with annoyance as if she hated every moment she had to spend on the phone with her (which she probably did).

            “I know. You saved your number in my phone remember?”

            Octavia snorts, “I’m surprised. I’d figured you’d delete it after you apparently decided that we weren’t worthy enough to hear a word from you for a month.”

            Clarke does not know how to respond to that.

            “Look, I’m not calling because I have any particular urge to hear your voice. If I never hear or see you again, my life would be a hell of a lot better.”

            “Then _why_ are you calling me?” Clarke rubs the bridge of her nose, “I don’t want to fight with you, Octavia. I don’t’ have the energy to do it anymore.”

            “Then shut the fuck up and listen!” She barks back.

            Clarke lets her head fall back against the trunk and listens to whatever it is Octavia wants to get off her chest.

            “You _owe_ me, Clarke, and I’m cashing in on it.”

            Clarke sighs, “What do you want, Octavia?”

            “I need your help with Bellamy.”

            “What?” Clarke shoots up, “What’s wrong with Bellamy? Did something happen?”

            “No,” she growls, “But something will if you don’t get over here and help me!”

            “What is going on and where? More importantly, why do you need my help?” But as Clarke asks these questions, she is already packing away her stuff and tossing her bag over her shoulder, knowing she already decided to help her.

            “It’s Lincoln. Bellamy found out about Lincoln and I and he lost it! He grabbed his car keys and just stormed away. I have a pretty good idea of where he is heading…”

            Clarke halts in her movements, “Uh, are you really sure you want _my_ help for this?”

            “ _No_ , but what other option do I have? Monty and Miller aren’t answering their phones and Jasper is absolutely useless in this situation. So guess what? I’m fucking left with you!”

            “Look, I’m willing to help, alright? I am. But you realize that Bellamy and I-” she has to choke back the hitch in her breath, “Bellamy isn’t my biggest fan right now.”

            “I know that!” She screams back, “ _You_ _broke his fucking heart_! Do you think you can just come back and pretend nothing ever happened?”

            “No, I-”

            “Well got off your damn high horse, because you _can’t_! You fucked with my brother and you’re fucking lucky I don’t break your face! Especially since even after you tore out his heart, you still have your grubby little fingers in the pieces.”

            Clarke flinches but says nothing.

            “Just get to the Dropship. Now!”

            With that, the line goes dead and Clarke is left standing in the silence of the forest. She gently lowers the phone and continues on her path, a deep feeling in her stomach that this was not going to end well. Not at all.

 

* * *

 

            By the time Clarke bursts through the Dropship’s doors 15 minutes after she hung up with Octavia, she is just in time to catch a glimpse of Lincoln walking out the back door, a bag of garbage in each hand. Cursing silently to herself, she rushes back out the doors and skirts around the building to the alleyway where the dumpster is. Unfortunately, Clarke was not the only one waiting for Lincoln there. Just as Lincoln lifts the lid of the dumpster to throw away the trash, she spots Bellamy storming down the alley from the opposite side, his eyes aflame and his fist clenched at his side.

            “Lincoln watch out!”

            Lincoln’s head snaps up just in time to dodge Bellamy’s swing and grapple him into a headlock.

            “Bellamy?” Confusion flashes across Lincoln’s face and he quickly releases Bellamy, “What the hell is going on?”

            Bellamy goes for another swing, but Lincoln easily dodges, “What’s going on is that you’re sleeping with my _little_ sister!”

            Bellamy swings again and again but each time Lincoln dodges with ease.

            “Hey!” Clarke rushes down the alley. “That’s enough guys!”

            “Look Bellamy, I-”

            “No, _you_ look! That’s my fucking little sister you’re touching!” He reaches for Lincoln’s shirt, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now?”

            Lincoln’s face grows dark and he grabs Bellamy’s wrist, his fingers encircling the bones and strangling them in a tight grip.  He opens his mouth to reply when Clarke squeezes between the two and rips them apart (with great effort on her part), crowding against Bellamy to distance him further.

            “I _said that’s enough!_ ” She pushes Bellamy further to the opposite wall and stretches out her arms, putting as much distance as she can between the two men. “You both are grown men! _Act like it!_ ”

             For the first time of her arrival, Bellamy’s eyes finally seem to snap onto her own, a glimpse of shock flitting across his features before they are quickly schooled back into anger. His gaze flickers between Clarke and Lincoln as if he is trying to decide who to direct his anger at first. It seems Clarke draws the unlucky straw because his gaze lands heavily on her.

            “Get out of here, Clarke. This isn’t any of your business. This is between me and him.”

            He takes a step forward, his eyes dismissing Clarke and focusing back on Lincoln, but she presses her palm firmly against his chest, “No, you need to calm the fuck down.”

            “Calm down?” he growls, “He’s sleeping with my baby sister!”

            “This is not how you handle this situation! You sister is a grown woman, Bellamy! She can sleep with whom she chooses!”

            “What the fuck do you know, Clarke? This is family business. Stay out of it.”

            He takes a step further into her hand, but she refuses to budge.

            “Yeah, well like it or not I’m in it!”

            “What the fuck is going on here?!”

            They all turn to see Octavia racing down the alley, her hair wild from her obvious run over and her face a mirror of Bellamy’s rage. She is at their side in moments, her hands flying to Lincoln’s face as her eyes drink in his appearance.

            “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Her eyes flicker up and down, inspecting him for any signs of injury.

            “I’m fine,” Lincoln grunts, wrapping an arm around her waist, “Really, I’m fine. Clarke got here in time.”

            “Thank god.”

            She drops her forehead against his chest for a brief moment, her face softening with relief and her whole body melting into his touch, and pulls him as close to her as possible. The moment, however, is short-lived as Octavia whips towards Bellamy, the anger returning to her features in seconds.

            “What the actual _fuck_ , B?” She barks out, “You can’t just storm off and beat up every boy I take an interest in! I’m not a child, B! I can date and sleep with _whomever_ I want!” Her voice rises with every statement until she is shouting, “You don’t control me!”

            Bellamy yanks Clarke’s arm down and takes a step closer to his sister. “What are you even thinking, O? You’re too young to be dating him! You’re 18 and he’s 27! He’s older than I am for _christ’s sake!_ Not to mention, nearly ten years your senior!”

            His eyes snap to Lincolns, “And you! What kind of sick bastard goes for an 18-year-old girl? You’re almost 30 and have no reason to be dating my little sister, let alone anything sexual!”

            “You don’t even know him!” Octavia roars, stepping closer until she and Bellamy are nose to nose, “You have no idea what Lincoln is like! Just because you were a shitty guy, doesn’t mean he is!”

            “That’s right, O, I was a shitty guy! That’s exactly how I know what is going through his mind! He is only going to play you to get what he wants and that’s it!”

            “Jesus! Listen to yourself! You’re not my dad, Bellamy!”

            Bellamy flinches, his mouth snapping shut and the muscle in his jaw ticking. Silence settles over the two as they stare each other down. Clarke, long forgotten in their argument, slowly inches away from the duo and towards Lincoln (who throws her an equally awkward and questioning look). Her foot scrapes on some gravel and Bellamy’s eyes snap to the noise. Something dawns on him and he takes a step back.

            “How long has this been going on?” His eyes do not leave Clarke’s.

            “That’s none of your fucking business!” Octavia bites back.

            “ _Octavia!_ How. Long.”

            “Why should I tell you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, petulant and unwilling.

            His eyes finally whip back to hers, “Because you’re my sister and you live under _my_ roof! So I’ll ask one more time; how long?”

            She stares him down for a few seconds before growling, “About a month. Happy now?”

            “A _month?_ ”

            His eyes settle back on Clarke and her heart drops to her stomach.

            _Shit._

            “You fucking knew.” He turns on her, “This whole time, you _knew_!”

            Clarke involuntarily takes a step back, “Bellamy…”

            “No! You _fucking knew_ and you didn’t say anything!” He takes another step forward, “You lied right to my face! In my own house!”

            “No! I didn’t!” She defends, taking another step back. “I _never_ lied to you!”

            “ _Oh really_?”

            “Yeah. Really.” Clarke straightens to her full height and crosses her arms, “I _told_ Octavia to tell you! I _told_ her to talk to you about Lincoln. You cannot blame me for your own sister not trusting you.”

            “And when she didn’t? When Lincoln showed up at the cabin and _you_ said _you_ invited him? What about then, Clarke? Did you fucking lie then?!”

            Clarke can feel herself being backed into a corner she cannot fight her way out of, but her blood is pumping in her ears and she knows she will fight tooth and nail to escape. So, she goes for where it will hurt.

            “Maybe it’s your fault, Bellamy.   _Maybe_ if you weren’t so overbearing and controlling, your sister wouldn’t feel the need to lie and keep her relationship a secret! She is 18 years old, Bellamy! She is old enough to make her own mistakes and decisions without you! And you know what? Lincoln is a _fucking stellar guy!_ Octavia is lucky to have found him!”

            “Oh, what do you know, Clarke? You don’t have a family! You never had a sister! Octavia is my responsibility! It is my job to make sure nothing happens to her and that no creep ever dares to lay a finger on my baby sister!”

            Clarke flinches, “You’re right! I don’t have a family, Bellamy. But you know what? That doesn’t mean I’m wrong! You are being an-”

            “YOU LEFT!” He cuts her off.

            There is a slight pause before he continues.

            “You left. So what the fuck do you know?”

            The words die on her lips and her mind reels as she tries to process what he said.

            _You left_.

            “Th- that has nothing to do with this.”

            A tense silence falls over the alley and no one dares to move or speak. Bellamy’s eyes remained glued hers and hers to his, neither quite sure what to say or do. Finally, it is Bellamy who makes the first move.

            “Fuck this.” He spins on his heels and stalks away.

            Clarke is so blindsided that she cannot do much more than watching him. He is nearing the end of the alley when Miller’s words push her into action and she is tearing down after him.

 _Make him_.

            Well, it was now or never.

 

* * *

 

            “You can’t just walk away from me Bellamy. Not this time!”

            Clarke barges into the room right behind him and kicks the door closed with her heel. She had followed Bellamy closely at his heels for the near 20 minutes it took to walk back to campus and up to his dorm, the entire time spent on getting him to talk to her (because she’ll be damned if she loses this last chance). Bellamy whirls around and towers over her.

            “For the last time, Clarke, this conversation is over.”

            “No, it’s not. You are going to talk to me whether I have to sit here all night and make you!”

            “Oh is that right?!”

            “Yeah, that’s right!”

            “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

            The both whip around to see Miller lying on his bed, an arm thrown over his eyes. He sits up and glares at the duo, their argument clearly haven woke him up from a nap. Quickly rummaging around for his things he stands up and stalks to the door.

            “I’m going to Monty’s. You two better fix this shit by morning.”

            He slams the door behind him and they are left in silence once more.

            “Go away, Clarke,” Bellamy finally sighs, running a hand over his face.

            “Nuh-uh. No way. You don’t get to avoid this anymore! You don’t get to run away!”

            “Like you did?!” He roars, “Like you ran away from us for a month! Tell me, Clarke, when did you become such a hypocrite?!”

            “Yeah, exactly like I did! And look where it got me, Bellamy! My life is a fucking mess and you know what I’m sick of it being like that. I’m so tired of fighting and pretending like it doesn’t hurt not being able to talk to you or watching you avoid me like I’m some sort of plague.”

            She rakes a hand through her hair, willing the tears welling in her eyes to remain where they are.

            “I’m _tired_. So, this is me trying to fix things. This is me trying to be better. What the fuck are you doing?”

            “What am _I_ doing? Oh just because you want to fix things— just because you are _finally_ ready to talk like a normal fucking human being we should all just fall in line and obey?” He crowds her closer to the door, “How fucking _regal_ of you, Clarke.”

            “That’s not fair!” She ducks around him and stalks toward the middle of the room, “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it!”

            He scoffs, “ Jesus, listen to yourself! You are probably the most self-absorbed person I have ever met! Well, news flash, Clarke, you left me— you left _everyone_! Just because you want to seek some sort of penance does not mean we have to forgive you!”

            “I’m not asking you to!” Clarke explodes, “ I am just asking you to talk to me— to let me explain! Then you-”

            “Well, I don’t want to!”

            “What do you want from me, Bellamy?! Huh? What will it take? You want me to apologize for leaving?”

            “Well, that would be a fucking start!”

            Clarke halts, her heartbeat drumming in her ears and her breath ragged in her lungs as her chest heaves up and down trying to breathe. She stares at Bellamy, his face taut and eyes ablaze, and she realizes that she cannot give it to him. Because she isn’t. She isn’t sorry at all that she left.

            “You know what? I’m not.” Her words rush out in a single breath and the dam inside her breaks.

            “I’m not sorry I left. In fact, I will _never_ be sorry I left. I may be sorry about _how_ I left or what it did to you or Jasper or Monty or even your sister, but I am not sorry I left.”

            Her eyes snap to his and her fingers curl into fists.  She thinks of the nights she drowned herself in a bottle, not really knowing if she would make it out alive. She remembers stumbling back to whatever sleazebag motel she was staying in and letting her mind go blank. She can feel the burn of the alcohol and the itch to feel it again and again. But, she also remembers Murphy’s outstretched hand and that first breath she took outside of the bar.

            “You had no idea what I was going through! You couldn’t help me— you couldn’t _save_ me and don’t act like you wouldn’t have tried! _I didn’t want to be saved_ , Bellamy. I wanted to rot away in that dark hole I dug for myself and let it swallow me whole. Staying here, staying at the cabin with our friends— _with you_ — would have pushed me further over the edge that much faster to the point where I would have never made it out. I _needed_ to leave, if not to spare you from watching me fall apart but for me to learn to crawl out on my own. So, no, I won’t apologize for leaving.”

            “Spare me the bullshit, Clarke,” he stalks over until they are standing inches apart and his body is looming over hers.

            “You say you left for us— that you didn’t want us to watch you tear your life into pieces and that we couldn’t help, but that’s all bullshit! _You wouldn’t even let me try!_ You rather push me and _everyone_ away not because you needed to ‘fix yourself’ but because you were afraid of letting anyone in! Letting _me in!_  You act like this self-sacrificing martyr but the truth is you’re a coward, Clarke.”

            “Fuck you, Bellamy. You had no idea what it was like for me!” She pushes at his chest, but he grips her wrists and holds them against him.

            “You had no idea what it was like for _me_! Here you come barging into my life, shoving your way into my home and my family and acting like you belong. You keep pushing and pushing until finally— _finally_ I let someone in, tell you _everything_ about my mother, about what it was like raising O, and every dark and dirty secret you wanted to know and you _wrecked me_! You wrecked me and then you just _left_. So you’re right, Clarke. I don’t know what it was like for you, but don’t think for one second you’re the only one in pain.”

            They are standing chest to chest and with every breath Clarke can feel her breasts brush against his, both of them heaving for air and a silence thick enough to make them choke. Adrenaline is rushing through their veins and both are too stubborn to give in. So they stand there, chest to chest, their breaths mixing together and all Clarke can think about how his very touch (no matter how minor or how many layers are between them) sends electricity racing down her spine or how she can smell nothing besides pine and cinnamon. Her eyes dart to his lips and suddenly she really is tired of pretending that she doesn’t want to taste them.

            Yanking free an arm from his iron grasp, she pushes him away from her only to curl her first in the collar of his shirt and pulling him level so she can slot his lips to hers. The kiss is bruising, her lips crashing against his and her tongue licking its way into his mouth until she can taste the sweet honey of his own slide against hers. The moment is short lived, however, as he roughly pushes her away, cutting off that sweet nectar.

            Their eyes snap together, each staring the other down as their chests heaving for air. His lips are red and shiny from their kiss, a mark of what she had just done, and Clarke can feel the urge to mark him more. Yet, before she can make a move, it is Bellamy who pulls her back into his chest, his hands roughly burying themselves in her hair, holding her face to his own as his lips move against hers. She responds quickly, winding her arms around his neck and tangling a hand in his curls, tugging at them as she deepens the kiss.

            One hand drops from her face and wraps around her waist, pulling her flush against him and lifting her up ever so slightly. She bites his lip, dragging it into her own and sucking it gently until she is rewarded with a shiver. Moaning, she releases it and licks against the seam of his mouth until their tongues are sliding against each other and entangle themselves.  His hand drifts lower and lower until it skirts the edge of her cardigan. She scratches lightly against his scalp and pulls him closer until her breasts are flattened against him and she can feel his heartbeat vibrating through her. Fingers slide underneath the fabric and slowly move up until they connect with the skin of her stomach and finally her ribs. His touch is burning and bruising as his grip rests just at the end of her ribcage.

            They break away, both unable to continue without gasping for air. This time when she looks at him, his hair is twisted every which way and his eyes are large circles of black. She can feel her own face burn from where his stubble had grazed her chin and cheek and feel the heat coming off her lips, which are without a doubt as red and swollen as his own. They stand there, their lungs screaming for air, watching each other. Clarke reaches for the hem of her cardigan and shirt and twists them over her head until she is standing before him in her bra. His eyes get impossibly darker and they move together again. This time is different, something urgent and primal has taken over their movements and the kiss gets deeper and rougher, her hands blindly reaching for his shirt and pushing it up his chest until he has to break away to remove it.

            They crash, tongues dancing and teeth clanking together. It is not a perfect kiss by any means, but they are long beyond trying to make it perfect. This is purely based on need. The need to touch skin against skin. The need to taste his lips. The need to mark the other as theirs. She starts yanking at the button of his jeans and roughly pulling them down until they start to pool around his ankles. He slides his thumbs in the waist of her pants until he can slide them over the curve of her ass, grabbing the newly uncovered skin as he goes. Blindly, they walk backward until the back of her knees slam into the edge of his bed, both of them kicking free of their bottoms and shoes as they go. His teeth bite at her lips for a moment longer, before his hands cup her backside and his finger tangles in the lace of her underwear. He growls, the noise shooting through her and straight down to between her thighs, and roughly grabs the lace in both hands, pulling until the band snaps free and her underwear slides down her other leg.

            She pulls away slightly, “Hey! I liked that underwear!”

            “Too damn bad,” he growls into her mouth and recaptures her lips with his.

            He reaches down and grabs just below her ass, lifting her onto the bed and crawling up after her, slipping off his boxer briefs as he goes. They inch their way up towards the headboard until their bodies can fit comfortably. He hovers over her, his eyes roaming her mostly naked body splayed beneath him and she can feel her skin flush under the attention. She pulls him by the neck until their mouths meet again. This time his kiss drifts lower, leaving a trail of kisses down her chin and neck until he settles himself near her collarbone. He bites roughly at the skin, pulling it between his teeth and sucking at it gently in a way she knows is going to leave a mark, only to caress it with his tongue when he is done and moving on to the next spot. In retaliation, she rakes her nails down his back, leaving angry red lines in their wake. He growls. She moans, craning her neck until she can grab an earlobe in her mouth and nibble at it with her teeth. This earns her another shiver and a mark that is rougher and bigger than the ones before.

            Soon his hand finds her breast and he starts palming it through her bra, his fingers squeezing and teasing it through the material until she arches her back enough for him to unhook it. Sliding it off, he quickly turns his attention to them, taking a nipple into his mouth and biting at it softly while his other hand squeezes her other breast. He releases the first one with a pop and quickly makes work of the second one. She buries her hands deeper in his hair and tugs at it almost too roughly. His mouth drags lower and lower, a trail of kisses tracing from the valley of her breasts to the base of her sternum and then across her stomach until he has settled himself between her legs.

            The ache between her legs has been growing and growing since that first taste of honey she got when she pulled his mouth to hers, her legs sliding together in anticipation as his mouth trailed over her body and his hands danced on her skin. Now she can feel his breath fan across her, the coolness sending a ripple of goose bumps over her skin. His eyes meet hers and she watches him, transfixed as he licks one long stripe up her slit with the broad side of his tongue. Her breath catches as he licks once more before his lips seal around that small bundle of nerves, teeth scraping it slightly. Electricity shoots up her body and ignites her. Her hand tightens in his hair and he increases the pressure, closing his eyes and focusing all his attention on making her squirm. But not too much, for his hand settles in the joint between her pelvis and leg and holds her down exactly where he wants her, using his free hand to slide a finger into her and then another. She is writhing in ecstasy, the coil in her stomach winding tighter and tighter until her body is ready to burst with pleasure. He moans, the vibration almost too much as it pushes her closer and closer to that edge. Her grip tightens and her other hand curls into the sheets beneath her, her hips trying to buck into his finger and fuck herself deeper down on them. He doesn’t let up, fingers creating bruises in her skin until he is good and done with her. She goes over the edge, the coil springing free and sending a heat wave of euphoria over her until her muscles become lax and putty under his hands.

            He slows down, his fingers pumping in and out of her as he coaxes her through the aftershock of her orgasm. Releasing her with a soft wet pop, he raises his face once more to meet her half-lidded gaze. His chin glistens, slick with her wet arousal and his lips swollen from where her teeth dragged and nibbled on them, but it is his eyes that send a jolt right through her, tightening that coil once more.His pupils are entirely blown, swallowing the brown she loved so much, and filled with a lust that rivals her own. She paws at his shoulders, urging him back up so she can seal her mouth over his once more. She tastes herself on his tongue and it pulls a deep moan from her belly, the muscles in her lower stomach clenching tighter. Finally, she has had enough and rolls them over so she is straddling his hips, his length hot and heavy against her stomach and her clit. She tries an experimental body roll, her center rubbing up and down his shaft, drawing a hiss from his lips and his fingers to dig deeper into her thighs. She tries another and another until she get a guttural moan from him and his hips twitch under her own, trying to buck into her.

            But now it is her turn and she sets the pace. Her hands drag down his chest and then up her body, playing with her breasts before threading her fingers through her hair. Her hips move slow and agonizing, teasing him until she can feel his every muscle twitch under her. All the while his eyes never leave her. She cannot help the smirk that dances across her lip as she leans down, her erect nipples slightly brushing over the toned muscles of his stomach. He greedily captures her lips and forces his tongue into her mouth and around her own. She lets her fingers trace over the planes of his chest and the muscles of his thighs before reaching between them and slowly stroking his length. Her fingers wrap around it gently, letting her thumb caress the tip as she drags them up and down. His body shiver and jerks beneath her. She can feel the ache between her legs grown more uncomfortable and she decides that she has had enough of teasing. Lifting herself up, she positions him just where she wants him.

            Bellamy pulls away, resting his forehead against her own, both slick with sweat and sliding against each other.

            “Condom.”

            She shakes her head, “I have the implant.”

            He groans, sealing his mouth over hers once more and she sinks down onto him. They both still, letting her body adjust to the length and size of him, her walls shuddering against him in a wave of pleasure. Trying a few experimental wiggles of her hips, a moan bubbles past her lips and she finds herself moving faster, her movements becoming harder and hurried. Bellamy’s hips buck up into her own, the wet slap of skin filling the room, but she could care less. They soon find their rhythm, quick and thunderous like the beating of their hearts as they give way to this primal yet inevitable urge between them. She leans down, biting at his lips in a rough kiss when his arm snakes around her waist and pulls her flush against him.

            Suddenly, he is throwing her off him, using the momentum to change their positions until he is hovering over her. She does not miss the smirk on his face when he catches her surprise. Opening her mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, her words die in her throat as he pounds into her, grabbing her hips and pulling them upwards so he is hitting deeper inside of her. Instead, a loud moan rips through her as he angles himself just right to hit the spot deep inside of her to make her crazy. She throws her head back, eyes drifting to the ceiling and her fingers curling in the sheets. Her mind goes numb with pleasure until all she can think of is his name and the heat of him inside her.

            “Bell,” she gasps, fingers pulling at the sheets, “Bell!”

            His movements quicken and soon he is pounding into her, each pump hitting her deeper and deeper, making her chest bounce with his rhythm. She can feel his fingers dig into her skin and the coil tightens further and further but she wants more. She needs _more_.

            “Bellamy!”

            His name is breathily on her lips and at first, she is not sure he even heard her, but then his movements still and she whines in displeasure. More! She needed more. She tries to buck her hips into his, chasing the pleasure she so desperately sought, but his grip halts her movements.

            “Say it again,” he growls.

            She whimpers, the ache between her legs craving more friction, but his fingers just tighten into her skin. He lowers himself until his lip hover near her ear and she can feel his breath caress the shell.

            “Say it again,” his voice rumbling through her where her body meets his.

            “Bellamy,” she moans.

            His whole body shivers and he seizes her mouth once again in a burning kiss. She whimpers and squirms under him, urging him to move once again, and he complies, driving himself deep and hard into her. He releases her mouth with a soft pop and raises himself higher above her. His hands trace down her arms and his fingers entwine themselves with hers. He slowly drags her arms over her head and pins them there as he pounds into her over and over again. But something has changed. Though his movements remained as hard and fast as before, they lacked the urgency that had driven them. Instead, there is an underlying yearning behind each thrust. When his lips next meet hers, she can feel the change there too. Gone was the need to mark her as his and in its place was that same yearning, as if begging her to respond. 

            It scared her.

            She rips her hand out his grasp and flips them back over so she is in control. He looks up at her, body arching to meet hers, but she presses her hand flat against his chest to keep him there. Setting her other hand lightly against his thigh, she starts driving them back to their original pace, hurried and filled with lust.  She throws her head up and closes her eyes, letting herself feel the bounce of her breasts and the slickness that had gather between them as she bounces herself up and down his length. Feeling herself reach the edge once again, she leans back over him, bracing herself against that arm on his chest. When her eyes slide open again, they are met with his and she is met with that yearning once again.

            This time when he pushes himself onto his elbows, she does nothing to stop him. He slowly crawls upward, approaching her like some wild and frightened animal. His fingers slide down her body and settle on her hips, slowly dragging them closer to his as he fully sits up. Their movements slowed, her hips moving in a slow roll against his own and her nose nearly resting against his own. Her eyelids droop down, and she sees him do the same. They are so close now, their movement becoming intimate and careful. Carefully, her hand goes to the back his neck and rests there in a light grip. Their mouths hover inches from each other, his breath becoming hers and hers his, but still, their eyes never break apart. His hand slowly rises from her hip and drags up her stomach. He grabs her breast, giving it a slight squeeze, before his hand comes to caress her cheek, his thumb brushing over the scar under her eye. Their lips crash once more, but this time it is slow, her bottom lip slotting between his upper and bottom one. His fingers run through her hair softly, and her arm slides around to his shoulder, flattening them together.

            Her orgasm hits her like an ocean wave, the cold chill flooding over her skin and sparking a flame in its wake. She comes with a cry against his lips and his name on her tongue.  Her walls flutter and squeeze around him, pulling Bellamy over the edge with her as his seed buries itself in her. On his lips is her name. Their movements slow and their kisses become soft and long, each of them trying to ride the aftershock but refusing to let go.

            As her completion rolls over her, their breath heavy against her skin and her heart slamming against her ribcage, she knows something has changed between them forever.

 

* * *

 

            When Clarke wakes up, Bellamy’s arm is wrapped tight around her middle and the soft light from a streetlamp is shining in through his window.  She wipes a hand over her eyes and blinks at the alarm clock sitting on Bellamy’s dresser. It reads a little after 10:00. Her head drops back down onto the pillow and Bellamy drags her closer to his chest, his soft breaths of air puffing her hair slightly.  A quick peek out of the corner of her eye tells her he is still asleep. She is about to let herself be lulled back to sleep when the reason for her awakening catches her attention. Sitting in the pile of her discarded clothing, she spies her phone buzzing softly on the ground, its screen lit up. She peels herself out of Bellamy’s arms (only managing to stir him slightly) and kneels on the ground to grab her phone. The chill of the air dances across her naked body and she has to cross her arm over her chest and huddle for warmth.

            “Hello?” She whispers into the receiver, looking over her shoulder to make sure Bellamy has not woken further.

            “Clarke? Clarke is that you?”

            Her body freezes at the sound of the voice.

            “Clarke, are you there? It’s Thelonious. ”

            “Uncle Jaha?”

            “Oh thank god! I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get a hold of you. Listen there is something very important I need to tell you.”

 

* * *

 

            Clarke is pulling her shirt over her head when Bellamy wakes up. At first, he is confused, looking at the empty side of the bed before his eyes finally catch her dressing figure in the dark.

            “Clarke?” His voice is thick with sleep, “Clarke, what are you doing?”

            “I’m sorry,” she bends down and picks up her pants, shoving a leg through as she goes, “I need to go.”

            “Go? Go where? Come back to bed, Clarke.”

            She tugs on her pants all the way and throws him a sad look, “I can’t.”

            “Look,” he runs a hand through his hair, “if it’s about what just happened-”

            “It’s not!” She rushes over to the side of the bed, “I just need to go home.”

            He searches her face for a second and then sighs to himself. He throws off the covers and scoots to the edge of the bed.

            “Okay, let me just get dressed and I’ll walk you.”

            “No, Bellamy. I need to go _home_. To New York.”

            “What? Why?”

            “It’s my mother. She- she fainted at work and Wells’ dad called and-” She cuts herself off, swallowing the hysteria clawing up her throat, “I just need to go.”

            “Clarke”

            He reaches for her, but she backs away, scooping up the rest of her discarded things in her arms.

            “I’m sorry.” She dashes for the door and throws it open, “I’ll call you. I promise. _I swear_! I just have to go.”

            “Clarke!”

            But she is already rushing out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear god this chapter is done! I have been wanting to write this chapter for a very long time now (Almost as much as Finn's death scene) and I am SO SORRY it took me an extra week to get it to you guys! It seems that 2017 is hell bent on making my vacation filled with a series of unfortunate events (yes I just did say that. Go watch the show.) BUT, I persevered and this chapter is finally done! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed your 2K words of dirty between these two because honestly, it was time. I hope their long anticipated coming together (heh) was well worth the wait! 
> 
> As always I loved all your comments, kudos and asks on Tumblr about this story! You really don't know how much it helps hearing back from you all and how much joy I get from reading your responses! See you all in the next chapter or come say hi on tumblr! My name is TheBashfulPoet (as on here) and I promise I don't bite!


	16. Hold Onto Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke finally returns home after nearly two years of being away. There she faces the one person she never wanted to see again, her mother. Join Clarke as she faces the last of her demons in the final installation of The Cracks in Our Armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys, we've reached the end. I'm not going to get sappy here, but expect a huge sappy end note.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> PS. Listen to Hold Onto Me by Mayday Parade for feels. This song really summarizes Bellamy and Clarke in this story.
> 
> PPS. I totally made a Spotify Playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/emilylovex/playlist/5EKMcdLI20vQ0sUnJVepS8)

 

  _“Listen there is something very important I need to tell you.”_

            Clarke felt like her life was happening in flashes. Flashes of Bellamy’s face as she gathered her clothes together. The long stretch of road growing before her. A big oak tree blowing in the wind.

            _“It’s your mother.”_

            The biting wind blows in through the window making her shiver (or so she tells herself) and her fingers tighten on the steering wheel, her foot pushing just a little harder on the gas. The road was almost completely empty at this time of night (not that she expects many other people to be on the road at midnight on a Tuesday). Still, there was something uncomfortably familiar about the stare of the road before her. Even more so about the white knuckled grip, she had on the steering wheel.

            It was funny; whenever she seemed to be behind the wheel for any time longer than an hour something about her life changed forever. She drove near 4 hours at 16 years old when her father hanged himself in his cell. Another 3 when Finn crashed. Even the drive to Cabin Blake took a little over 2 hours. Her life changes at the wheel and now she was driving back to the one place she never wanted to see again.

            _“You need to come home.”_

            She watches as a car speeds down the highway, overtaking the car in seconds and leaving her in its dust. She stares until the red of the taillights is swallowed by the black of the night. The same dark road, the same biting wind, the same feeling of dread resting in the pit of her stomach.

            Yet, things were different as well. Now her skin is sticky with a layer of sweat that wasn’t entirely her own. She could feel the lingering touch of fingers on her skin and the faint scent of something entirely and uniquely male filling her nostrils and tainting every breath she took. There was still an ache between her legs and the echoes of her name on lips she could still taste. The voice echoed so loud it drowned the soft hum of the radio

            _Bellamy_.

As if thinking his name invoked his very presence, she is flooded with the memories of him. She remembers his arms wrapped tightly around her body as she woke not yet two hours ago, his lips trailing down her body, that soft look in his eyes as they reach their completion, her name on his lips as they tumbled. Her stomach twists in knots as she realizes that she’s done something she’s not sure she should have. Even more so when she realizes that she can’t bring herself to regret it anyway.

            They would be different and that thought alone terrifies her.

            Her eyes fall back to the road before her. It may have been the same, but she no longer was and Bellamy’s touch had everything to do with it. She’s not quite sure what that means exactly.

 

* * *

 

            The headlights flood the empty driveway, two twin beams of light illuminating the piercing darkness until they find a home on the white garage doors. She squints, raising a hand to shield herself from the blinding light and fumbles for the ignition button. Killing the engine, she drowns herself in that darkness. It is only then that the house comes into view.

            At a little after 5 AM, it looks almost exactly as it had the last time she’d seen it. The yellow paint and its white trimmings are still immaculate with a soft line of snow coating the roof and the lawn, though a path had been plowed for a perfect line leading from the driveway to the front porch. The oak tree — _her_ oak tree— stands just a little at the right; its leaves have long since fallen to the winter frost and its dark and barren branches stretched out like spider webs.

            Her eyes trail along the branches, each twist and turn lulling her back to a time she used to sit beneath them and watch the leaves drop one by one. She could almost hear her father’s voice call her from the front porch and she’d look over to see his smile spread wide. The tip of his nose and cheeks would be stained red from the cold and two steaming mugs of hot chocolate would rest in each hand.

            But when her eyes move to meet his, all she sees is an empty porch.

             The seams of her scars fray open; she presses a hand to them to make sure they didn’t bleed over.

            “Clarke,” a muffled voice calls her.

            Her eyes rip from the porch to the window at her left, the hand at her chest tightening its grip as if to steady her rapidly beating heart.

            “Uncle Jaha,” she breathes as the familiar face snaps into focus.

            He opens the door with a sheepish smile and offers her a hand to get out. The rush of the winter morning air fills her car and sends a shiver down her spine, making her wish (not the first time that night) that she had grabbed a thicker jacket (or really anything).

            “I did not mean to frighten you. I just saw your headlights from inside.”

            “No, no! It’s fine,” she waves him off, “I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings.”

            He smiles at that, “You always did have your head in the clouds as a child. It’s what makes you a brilliant artist and one of the things Wells always adored about you.”

            She flinches at the name, the pain of losing him still fresh in her chest and ever more present here. Here, he was just another ghost that haunted the empty halls of her mother’s house.

            Shaking the thought away, she slips her hand in his and allows him to pull her into a hug, a tight embrace that soothed the ache in her chest but only to replace it with a flood of guilt. She forgets sometimes that she wasn’t the only one to lose Wells that day. While Thelonious considers her family (having been dubbed Uncle Jaha by her at the tender age of 3), Wells was all he had left in the world after his wife passed away in childbirth. And now that child was gone too.

            Her absence didn’t help. When her father had been jailed and she couldn’t stand the walls of her own house, he opened his to her no questions asked. He folded her into his little family, giving her a place to return to every holiday and every break alongside Wells. But then Wells died and she could not stand being there without him. So, she left after the funeral and never came back.

            “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long,” she whispers into his chest, tears stinging the corner of her eyes.

            “It’s okay,” he pats her back, “I understand. You’re here now and that’s all that counts.”

            She pulls away and wipes at an eye, “Thank you for calling me.”

            “Of course, Clarke. Whatever may be going on between you and your mother, I know you still love her.”

            Nodding, she clears her throat and ducks her head, “How is she?”

            “Asleep,” he says with a hint of amusement, “It _is_ past five in the morning.”

            A wave of heat crawls up her neck and floods her cheeks, “Sorry, I just sort of…. Drove.”

            “It’s no bother, I’m usually up now no matter what.”

            A short silence falls over them and she bounces on the balls of her feet, “Can you tell me what happened exactly?”

            He sighs, tucking his hands deep in his pockets, “You mother has been overworking herself as of late. Worked straight through Thanksgiving and again on Christmas. I tried to get her to come over but…” he pauses, “I am afraid I did not push the matter as hard as I could have.”

            She looks at him, _really_ looks at him. Dark circles line his eyes and his usually clean-shaven face is covered in patchy stubble. His cheeks are gaunt and his skin becoming pallor than his usual bright complexion. Dragging her eyes down, she sees that the weight loss extends to the rest of his body, this frame thinner than she’s ever seen it and his shoulders hunched under his grief. If Clarke’s ghosts were still haunting her, his must have been hovering just as close.

            “It’s okay,” she reaches out to take his hand, “I know you tired.”

            He smiles his thanks, “Anyways, all the overworking must have caught up because she collapsed while making rounds.”

            “Is she alright?”

            “Oh yes, she’s doing better now, but she’s been put on forced leave until she’s regained her strength.”

            She feels a knot loosen in her chest. _Thank god._

“But enough of that right now; you must be exhausted from that drive. Come on, let’s get you inside.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders, moving them in the direction of the door.

            She looks up hesitantly at the house, “Um, yeah. Of course.”

            “Clarke,” he pauses, giving her an all to knowing look, “if you do not want to stay here, you’re more than welcome in my home.”

            She shakes her head, “No, thank you. I think it’s time I finally talked with my mother.”

 

* * *

 

            Jaha had left her almost as soon as they crossed the threshold, saying something about running over to his house for a shower and some fresh clothes before her mother woke for breakfast. She stood in the foyer alone, her eyes staring through the arch directly ahead of her and into the black void leading to the rest of her childhood home. Her eyes flick to the twin staircases at either side of the arch and she considers for a moment that she could just walk up the steps and collapse in her bed, forgetting the demons that lay in the shadows. Waiting. Whispering.

            But she feels that tug towards the darkness; that same one that tells you to swerve your car on the highway or urges you to leap when you stand too close to the ledge of a steep cliff. It whispers low and dark and seductive., daring you to give in despite knowing all that awaits you is jagged rocks and pain.

            She jumps anyway.

            Clarke notes how strange she feels walking back into this house, almost like she was walking into a memory. As she wanders deeper and deeper into it, she lets her fingers trail the walls at her side, the smooth texture gliding under her fingertips completely unobstructed. The house is as empty and impersonal as the day she left it almost two years ago. Even in the dark, she could make out the pristine and untouched furniture that decorated the rooms, each piece adjusted and placed just so to ensure it looked like an image from the catalog her mother undoubtedly chose it from. That was the first thing she had done after her father’s arrest, stripped the house of all furniture and replaced it with all new pieces. What her mother failed to realize that while it may look like the catalog, it was just as cold as one too.

            When her father had still lived here, the walls were covered in bright and vibrant images and memories. The house had signs of life everywhere, with leftover blankets crumpled on the couch from the night before, a pair of shoes tucked under the end table by the front door as if someone had kicked them off and forgot they were there, and photographs squeezed between books on the bookshelf —scattered memories between worn novels and texts. It had screamed of life and love and _familiarity_. Then it had been a home, _her home_.

            She turns the corner, the hall opening to a wider and better-lit room. Here the darkness was not so impermeable but rather faded to a soft hum by the light slipping in through the gap of the curtains.  Now her eyes can make out the shapes of furniture and the layout of the room without straining to see against the darkness. Her eyes skip over the dining table to the opening for the kitchen and finally to the railing just at her left that overlooked the sunken living room. Her gaze fixates on the fireplace against the far wall, the empty space above the mantle mocking her.

            Once a photo used to hang there, a family portrait of them from when she was barely three years old and could still fit on her father’s shoulders. She remembers the identical grins on her and her father’s face and her mother’s amused smile as she looks up at them with an unmistakable fondness. _That_ was the Griffin family that had lived in the house of her memories, the house so alive and warm.

            So really it makes sense that it was the first thing to go in her mother’s purge. Now the wall stood barren and all other signs of life were swept away along with it; no more shoes under end tables, no more photographs squeezed between books. Now everything was immaculate and perfect.

            She pulls her eyes away, letting her fingers drag along the banister as she forces herself to move on. Letting her feet carry her where they will, she skirts around the dining table, hand dragging over the curve of every chair, pauses at the mouth of the kitchen but never stepping onto the tile, and finally coming to rest at the plain wooden door tucked away in the corner of the room. The door to her father’s workshop.

            While her father may have been a brilliant engineer, he always had the heart of a mechanic (two things he would always claim were warring against each other) that loved to tinker and take things apart. When they had first moved into the house, he had used the garage as his workshop but after a harsh winter and her mother’s complaining of going out into the cold to reach her car, he had decided to build a space just off the garage to house all his trinkets and projects.

            Clarke lays a hand flat against the door, resting her head on top of it as her heart constricts in her chest. When she was younger, her father had banned her from ever stepping foot in the room, afraid she would get hurt touching something she shouldn’t have been, but when she was about 7 or 8 she let her curiosity get the better of her. Waiting until her father had left to make lunch, she slipped into the room when he wasn’t looking. While her father had always had a multitude of projects going on at any given time, she vividly remembers the contraption that had been sitting on his desk that day.  It was a miniature carousel, but instead of horses, it was made of comets and stars.

            She could still feel the prick on her finger from where she had touched one of the pointed ends and sliced her finger. Of course, that happened to be the exact moment her father chose to walk back into the room and catch her snooping. Yet, instead of getting the lecture she had been expecting, he had merely shaken his head with a fatherly fondness and fetched a Band-Aid from one of the drawers. From that day on the little workshop became one of their escapes from the world. When it was too cold or wet to be outside under their tree, they could be found sequestered in the room dreaming of new little trinkets to create. Even when her father was gone, it had remained one of the few reminders of him that had escaped the purge, allowing her a small haven to remember the man she had missed so dearly.

            Her fingers fall to the doorknob and she twists it, the door falling open slowly. The smell of musty air and dust filled her nose and for a moment she lets herself believe that the room had remained untouched after all these years. Yet when she opens her eyes, all she sees in an empty room.

            Somehow it was like losing him all over again.

            She yanks the door shut and practically bolts away from it, dashing back through the room and down the hall to the foyer. She has had just about enough of falling. Climbing the steps two at a time, she keeps eyes trained at her feet and ignores the blank stares of the walls that taunt her. When she reaches the last landing, her eyes are forced from the ground and to the small dark hall before her.

            Inch by inch she stumbles toward the door, the thick black a welcome reprieve from the reminders of her father’s absence. She enters the room and hits the switch with her elbow as she closes the door with her foot. Unlike the rest of the house, her room remained the only thing not touched by time.

            To be honest, Clarke was surprised, sure that the moment she had left her room would have been swept away like everything else —that she too would be erased and forgotten— yet everything was exactly how she had left it; the only sign of someone having ever entered the room being the perfectly made bed that rests pressed to the wall directly opposite of where she stands.

            Of course, that’s when her eyes flicker to the mural.

            It was a rendition of Van Gogh’s Starry Night (cliché she knows, but she’s always adored the piece anyway) that stretched between the two windows on either side of her bed. She had painted it when she was 15 alongside her father; she painted the strokes while he installed a light system that would mimic the stars. If she hit the switch just right of the one she already hit, the mural would come alive in twinkling lights, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. It had taken days to get just right, but after multiple trips to and from the hardware store and countless paint fights, they had gotten it just perfect. That first time they turned on the lights, neither of them could speak; they simply stood there in silence, arms wrapped tightly around each other and eyes sparkling in awe.

            It had been their last project together before he was taken away.

            She hits the light switch, hurling the room in darkness once more. Pretending —just for a moment— that it would be enough to hide the memories. At first it had come as a relief that her room had remained untouched, that at least a small reminder of her father still graced the walls. But now? Now it just shows her how much she’s lost. If the house below held the echoes of her past, they were screaming in here.

            Crawling into her bed, she curls beneath the covers feeling like the same lost little girl who used to live here.

 

* * *

 

            When Clarke finally wakes up, the sun is already high in the sky and streaming through the windows. She rolls over onto her other side, but it offers little relief from the one she started on. Yanking on the blankets, she pulls them over her head with a groan, burying her face into the mattress. Sadly, her dark haven is ruined by her phone which chooses that exact moment to light up and buzz with a barrage of messages. She debates ignoring it in favor of falling back asleep, but then the damn thing starts ringing.

            Throwing off the blankets, she pulls herself into a seated position and answers the phone with a gruff hello.

            “Good to see that some things are still the same. You never were a morning person, though it is the afternoon.” A warm chuckle fills the other end.

            “Uncle Jaha,” she runs a hand over her face, “Sorry, I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

            “I figured as much. You were pretty dead on your feet when you arrived, so I am glad that you were at least properly able to rest up.”

            She hums, “Did you need something?”

            “Oh no, I am just calling to let you know that I had to go into the city for some business. I should be back later this evening for dinner, but until then I am afraid it will just be you and your mother.”

            “Oh, okay.” she tries to keep the disappointment from her voice, “Thank you for letting me know.”

            “Of course. Please do try to make sure she is resting. She may be a doctor, but she makes a terrible patient.”

            Clarke grimaces. She’s not particularly keen on the idea of trying to babysit her mother alone for the day, at least not without Jaha as a buffer. Still, it is the perfect opportunity to talk with her without any interruptions. That and the alternative is to hide away in her room for the day.

            “Yeah, okay” she sighs, “I’ll try to keep an eye on her.”

            “Marvelous. Call me if there is any trouble.”

            After a short goodbye, she lets the phone drops beside her and drops her head back against the wall. It has been a little over a year since she last saw her mother and even then, it was in a formal setting at one of Jaha’s fancy Christmas Galas. Now there will be nothing to buffer them —no niceties in place to ensure they stay civil and put smiles on their faces. No, here there is only the ghosts as their audience and years of pent up frustrations and hurt clawing to get out.

            She already felt raw at the encounter.

 

* * *

 

            After finally building up the courage to climb down the stairs, she finds her mother leaning over the island counter reading the newspaper with a slice of toast precariously balances on the tips of her fingers. She looks so relaxed and casual that it nearly throws Clarke for a loop; even when they had been a family, Clarke seldom saw her mother in anything remotely casual, let alone in a pair of legging and loose sweater she is dressed in currently.

            “Clarke.” At some point in her musings, her mother had looked up from the paper and saw her standing at the edge of the kitchen. A quick glance at her eyes scanning her up and down tells Clarke her mother is making her own observations.

            “Mother,” she tilts her chin up and meets her gaze, unwilling to let her mother’s judgments make her cower.

            She knows what she looks like, clothes crumpled from sleep (and a night on the floor, not that her mother knew that bit) hair piled on her head in an attempt to appear tamed, and two dark circles lining her eyes from the amount of sleep she’s gotten in the last two days. Still, she keeps her chin held high. She was not the same little girl begging for her attention anymore.

            There is a pause before her mother shakes her head and lowers the paper flat onto the counter. “Are you hungry? There might be some meat and bread in the refrigerator that you could make a sandwich with. I’m afraid I gave the staff the day off.”

            “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

            With a per functionary nod, her mother’s eyes drop back to the paper, a silence falling over them. Clarke clears her throat.

            “So, uh, did you sleep alright?”

            “I slept well and yourself?”

            “Fine, just fine.”

            Another silence. Thankfully this time it is cut by her mother’s sigh.

            “Clarke, what are you doing here?”

            “Jaha called me. He said you needed me to come home.”

            “And what? You just dropped everything and drove up?”

            Clarke feels a flame of irritation light in her chest, but she tries to tamper it down, folding her arms across her body, “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. You are my mother and something was wrong. Of course, I came.”

            “I’m your mother, huh? That’s all it took?” She can see her mother’s hands curl into fists, balling up the paper in her hand and causing the muscles in her jaw to twitch.

            The air stiffens and Clarke can feel a fight gearing up, her own defenses rising on instinct. She tampers it down, squeezing her eyes shut and drawing a deep breath into her lungs. On exhale, her arms drop to her side and her shoulders loosen.

            “Look, I don’t want to fight. Please don’t turn this into one.” Her eyes plead with her mother’s, “I’m here now, can’t we just leave it at that? For now?”

            “Don’t make it out so I’m the bad guy, Clarke.” her mother snaps, “You do not get to just waltz back into this house all high and mighty and decide everything is okay. Not when I’ve been calling you for _months_ asking you to come home— _begging_ you to!”

            “You never asked for a damn thing!” Her temper boils over, all decorum forgotten as she stalks further into the kitchen, setting herself opposite of her mother at the island. “You _demanded_ I come back! And when that didn’t work, you tried to bully me back with threats of money.” She grinds her teeth, “So no, I didn’t come home before.”

            “See, that’s what I’m talking about! You’re making _me_ the villain. I never threatened nor bullied you into anything. That’s obvious from the two years you spent largely ignoring me.”

            “I said _try_ ,” she spits, “And you’re the one who pushed me away when you cut me off and stole the money Dad left me.”

            “That money is sealed off until you’re 21.”

            “Yeah because you sealed it off!”

            She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest, “No, your father did.”

            “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

            “Why?” her mother’s voice dipped in a low and venomous tone, “Because you knew your father so well? He’s not the saint you remember him as, Clarke. May I remind you he was arrested and sent to prison?”

            “ _Because you sent him there!_ ”

            Her jaw clicks shut as the force of Clarke’s words hang in the air between them, echoing down the empty halls at their backs.

This is not how things were supposed to go; she was supposed to be different, _be better_. Yet here she stands, crescent moons burying themselves in her palm and her muscles shaking from the tension. Then again, may this be how it will always turn out; maybe it was an inevitability with them and she was a fool to think that this time would be any different. The fight rushes out of her, her body folding under the exhaustion of keeping up this feud. She is just so tired of it all. Slowly, she unfolds her fingers.

            “I don’t even know why I came,” she mutters to herself.

            It must have been clear enough because her mother scoffs, “That is exactly what I’m wondering. Why now Clarke? Why come now?”

            She lets the silence sit between them for a moment before sadly shaking her head.

            “Dad’s dead. Wells is dead. Jaha has one foot in the grave after his son and you’re asking me why I came?” She presses her lips in a tight line, “Do you know what it’s like to wake up to a phone call saying someone you care about is hurt?”

            Blind panic. Faceless crowds. Chest so tight she couldn’t breathe.

            “I do. In fact, I know it so well I can describe to you in detail how the world sounds when it’s crashing down around you. I know it well enough that when Jaha called, I dropped everything to make sure the only family I had left didn’t end up in the ground with the rest of them. But now? Now I’m thinking I may have just left the only remaining family I had.”

            The words leave her mouth much faster than her mind had time to process them, but once they are free there is no hope in returning them. She left her family. The words ring so loud in her ear it is a wonder they do not deafen her.

            She left them. _Again_.

            Her breath catches in her throat and she can feel the early stages of an oncoming panic.

She left them.

            She sees Jasper’s face contorted with anger and sadness and Monty’s subtle look of betrayal. She sees Octavia’s bitter glare and Lincoln’s sympathetic eyes and Miller’s stony look of disappointment. She sees Bellamy.

            _Oh god,_ her throat tightens.

            She is no fool; she knows that after her first stunt a rift had been carved deep in her relationships with her small group of friends, a rift that had only just begun to heal and she just _left_.  She left them and any chance she may have had to keep them.

            And for what? A mother who did not want so much as look her in the eye or hear what she had to say? A house filled with memories of the one person she loved most in the world? The panic claws its way up her throat, a scream crashing against her sealed lips to escape.

            Not waiting for her mother to comment, she’s turning on her heels, walking away from the kitchen and retreating to her room. There, at least, she could give in to the hollows of her rising panic without her mother seeing —without her knowing she managed to strike as deep as she intended.

 

* * *

 

            As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, a loose and shaky breath escapes her lips and her body shivers upon its escape. Her fingers quiver as they reach behind her and latch the lock closed, barring anyone from witnessing her fall apart. No, she clenches her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut; she will not fall apart, not for her mother. Tearing her eyes open she quickly looks for something—anything to stay the panic. She can feel a familiar sting in her eyes but she willfully blinks it away. She focuses on the bed, her eyes roaming over the rumpled sheets and blankets and wishes she never got up at all.

            Her eyes trail from the bed to the mural on the wall, but the same pang from last night lances through her chest and she quickly turns away before the pain becomes too much to bear. In her haste to look away, her gaze locks on to the wall at her far right and the lone desk that rest against it. _There_. Her mind focuses in on the small corner of the room, forcing the panic lower and lower until all she can see is the desk and wall. The panic numbs. She finds herself drawn towards it, pushing off the door and shuffling closer before she consciously knows she is doing it.

            This used to be her art corner, the large draft table a gift from her parents when she was ten and showed some actual talent for the craft. Her fingers brush against a long since forgotten stack of paper, pens, and brushes, each a relic from a life so far from her own. When her gaze moves upward she is met with an explosion of color. The entire wall is covered in bits of scrap paper with doodles, polaroids, and photographs. Some are snapshots of her life, pictures of her and Wells at various ages and locations, while others are images of famous paintings or picturesque scenes of nature and the city. Some are drawings she no longer remembers creating. Some are of her father.

            Her eyes trace through each picture, seeing the timeline of her life and interests play back before her in flashes of scenes and awkward smiles. As they spiral inward, she is led straight to the words that rest in the center, _ex nihilo nihil fit_. They are painted black in large block letters that match her father’s scrawl. Absently her fingers reach out to touch them.

            “Nothing comes from nothing,” she whispers.

            It was something her father had always told her. He believed that nothing would ever be given to you and that you had to work hard for every opportunity life presented you with and fight even harder to keep it.

            Another pang.

            As her finger trails the last of the letters, she absently wonders if Bellamy would recognize it.

            The pain that strikes through her is something else entirely. She pulls away from the text as if it burned her, but it was too late; the flame had already begun consuming her.

            The memory of him comes rushing back in. His fingers buried in her hair. The scrape of his teeth on her neck and the inside of her thigh. The pleading look in his eyes when she closed that door. But even worse is the swirling pit of longing she feels underneath all the stabbing pain. She misses him.

            She misses the sound of his laughter when he’s fighting with his sister and even more so the way it sounds in a hushed toned late at night. She misses having him beside her when she draws and he reads and neither one of them say a single word for hours but feel better having the other there. She misses how freely she could laugh with him, the casual touches of intimacy, the stolen looks that lasted just a little too long, and just knowing that no matter what he was on her side.

            She misses everything, but most of all she misses _him_. Because she loves him.

            The words steal what little breath she had remaining as she allows the confession to wash over her for the first time since she realized it all those weeks ago. Because it’s truth. After everything she has been through and everything she put him through, she is still completely and utterly in love with him.

            And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? She loved him, so she pushed him away. And why? To protect him from the same fate of all her loved ones? To punish herself for the guilt she feels over their deaths? To be honest she doesn’t even know anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

            All she does know is that when she finally got the chance to fix things —to finally talk— she ran. Again. _And for what?_ So, she could drive 7 hours back to a house that she hates and mother who rather pretend she didn’t rip apart her life? She walked away from the man she _loves_ under some misguided notion that she had to face this broken part of herself —that she could _fix_ this, but look at her. She’s hiding in her room after fighting with the very person she was supposed to be facing.

            She ruined everything, _for nothing_.

            Her breath turns shallow and it is not long before she has to start fighting for air at all. Her lungs burn from the exhaustion and her vision blurs the world around her. She belatedly realizes it is because she’s crying, the tears choking away the little air she had left until she sees swirls of light and specks of black.

            _Oh god, I can’t breathe_ , the thought sends her deeper into the panic. She looks around for help —a distraction— but the walls are only closing in.

            _Air! I need air!_

            She claws for the door, ripping it open and thundering down the stairs. The house swims and twists around her but she doesn’t even notice, the need to escape far out weighing her need to observe her surroundings. No, she is acting on pure instinct, allowing her feet to carry her through the once familiar house and hoping they would lead her away. If she passes her mother in her flee, she does not notice nor does the woman say anything. The next thing she does notice is the blinding white light and the sudden sensation of being cold.

            When she blinks the world gradually comes back into focus and she realizes that she made it out of the confines of the house. Yet, with that realizations did not come the breath of relief she had been chasing. Even with the walls being gone, escaping had done nothing to still the sensation of the room closing in, her breathing remaining strained and shallow and the world spinning beneath her hands and knees from where she kneels in the snow.

            She curls her fingers into the ground, the soft white snow giving beneath the heat of her palms and melting against her skin but the sting of the cold is not enough to calm her pounding heart.

            _Breathe, Clarke. You need to breathe!_ a voice softly coaxes her; a voice that is not her own.

            She opens her mouth trying to swallow a gulp of air, but her throat squeezes shut in protest, only allowing a sliver to reach her lungs.

            _Breathe!_ the voice demands

            _I can’t_ , she nearly sobs, pressing her face to snow beneath, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

            _Clarke,_ please _. You need to breathe for me._

Flashes of warm hands cupping her cheeks and shoulders, brown eyes covered by inky curls, and the rumble of his voice.

            _Clarke, please._

            _Bellamy_. The voice belonged to Bellamy, the words near the same from New Years. She remembers how his touch brought her back from the edge of panic (if only for a moment) and how his voice had soothed her muscles and coaxed her lungs into drawing that delicious first breath. She tries to conjure those images now, praying that would be enough to help her once more. But her memory is flawed, those same feeling escaping her and only coming to her in pieces. She can hear his voice, but the warm timbre is off and it lacks the vibrations against her skin. She feels the pressure from his touch but there is no heat to accompany it.

            Her lungs draw in another shaky breath but it is not nearly enough. The panic begins to shake her body to the bones. Memory would not be enough; she needed _him_.

            She was going to die here.

            _No_ , a voice roars in her ears, but this time it’s not Bellamy’s. _Fucking fight, Clarke._

            She obeys, her fingers shakily reaching for the phone in her back pocket, the digits slipping as they key in the code and search for his contact. When the phone begins to ring, she raises it to her ear, trying to slow her gasping as she waits for it to connect— _hoping_ it connects.

            “Hello?” his voice is gruff and thick with sleep.

            “B-Bella-my?”

            “Clarke? What’s wrong?”

            “I- I c-can’t brea-the.”

            The sound of rustling fills the receiver and she can hear bare feet slapping against the ground. “Okay, Clarke I’m going to need you to focus on the sound of my voice. Can you do that?”

            “I d-don’t kn-now.”

            “Yes, you can, Clarke. Tune out everything but the sound of my voice. Nothing else matters.”

            She tries, but the world swirls around her and her heartbeat pounds in her ears.

            “Close your eyes, Clarke. Nothing else matters; It’s just you and me.”

            Her eyes slide shut and she tries another breath. This time it goes in a little easier, but still not enough to fill her lungs.

            “Good, that’s really good Clarke. Can you do another?”

            She tries.

            “That’s right, just in then out. In. Then out.”

            Her breathing slows, matching the rhythm he sets. She feels her chest expanding and collapsing with each full breath, the panic receding with each fall.

            “You’re okay,” Bellamy soothes, “You’re okay, I’m here. We’re okay.”

            She keeps breathing, her body sagging against her knees and the cold ground.

            “I’m right here, Clarke. I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

            She lays there for a second, letting the sound of his voice wash over her and sweep away the last remaining feelings of panic. When her lungs continue to fall and rise in a steady motion, only then does she allow her eyes to slide open, the world blinding at first, but quickly coming into still focus. Another second and she's able to push herself into a seated position.

            “Bellamy,” her voice is hoarse but remains steady.

            “Clarke,” her name sounds like a breath of relief, “Are you okay?”

            She skips over the question, not really sure how to answer it without spilling everything onto the table, a conversation she does not think she can handle right now.

            “Sorry, I did not want to call you like that. I just-” she cuts herself off; fear choking the words before they can breathe past her lips.

            “Thank you,” she says instead, “I don’t know what I would have done without you being there.”

            “Clarke. _Are you okay?_ ”

            She sighs, caught in her attempts of evasion and still unsure of how to answer. So, she settles with “I don’t think I’ve been okay for a long time, Bellamy.”

            “Clarke-”

            “But right now, I’m doing better. A large part thanks to you. I _am_ , however, sorry about waking you up like that.”

            “It’s fine Clarke, just-” he pauses then sighs, “Just thought I warned you about doing that.”

            “Doing what?”

            “Giving me a damn heart attack.”

            There is a pause, both letting his words echo between them. Echoes from the time when they stood on very different ground when there wasn’t this space hanging between them.

            “I’m sorry,” she apologizes again but this time it’s quieter.

            “I know,” he says equally as soft.

            Silence, then,

            “You called.”

            “I did.”

            “I didn’t think you would.”

The words sting but ring true. “Neither did I.”

            Because that’s what she does. She punishes because she’s convinced herself they would be better off without her. And maybe they are. Her broken pieces cut sharply and deep. Not just herself either.

            Bellamy sighs and she can hear the creak of a bed give as it settles beneath his weight. “Clarke, please just talk to me. What’s going on? Why did you leave?”

            “My mother is sick, or well she _was_ sick.” Clarke sighs, rubbing a hand over her face and smearing away the dried tracks of tears, “I got a call from my uncle saying something happened to my mother and that I needed to come home and I just-”

            The words die in her throat, unsure of how to vocalize what she felt in that moment.

            “You just couldn’t stop thinking of Finn.” he finishes, “So you panicked and ran home to make sure she was okay.”

            “Yeah,” she answers lamely.

            He heaves another sigh, “Look, I get it okay? I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to get that call after everything that’s happened and I’m not mad at you for going to help your mom, it’s just-”

            He pauses.

            “God, do you know what it was like? Seeing you disappear _again?_ Not knowing where you were or if you even _made it_ and weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere?”

            “Bellamy…” His words echo with more than her leaving for New York, but she doesn’t have the words to soothe his pain. She didn’t know what it was like and instead of trying to understand, she just did it again.

            “I didn’t even know if I was ever going to see you again if we would ever get a chance to talk about what happened between us.”

            “Bellamy, I-”

            “No, Clarke. I don’t want to have that conversation over the phone. I want to, no, I _need_ to do it in person, alright? And I know that’s unfair and I’m sorry, but what I have to say needs to be said in person.”

            Excitement ripples through her but it is short lived as a shock of dread quickly follows its path. He could have any number of things to say to her (a large percent of which would not be kind), but somewhere deep in her just _knew_ what those words were. Her mind races back to yesterday when their harried movements turned slow and sensual, every push and pull of his body screaming things her heart echoed but her mind chose to ignore. But she can’t ignore them now.

            “When are you coming home?”

            _Home_. The word mocks her. _I am home_ , she wants to laugh bitterly, but really that has not been true for years now. Before it used to be with Wells and Uncle Jaha, then it had become the tree lined campus of ARC University, and now? Now home has become a cabin two months in the past.

            “I don’t know,” she answers honestly, “A couple of days maybe? I don’t want to leave before I had the chance to talk to my mother. To _really_ talk with her.”

            What she doesn’t tell him is that she doesn’t know if that was even possible.

            “Okay, I can wait,” he says without hesitation and guilt wraps around her chest, “Just, come back alright? Come back to me, Clarke. In one piece.”

            Her eyes wander to the house behind her, the structure looming over her back. She can sense herself slipping away every moment she stays here, the progress she had made over the last several months falling over the precipice of that endless black hole she crawled out of— the very hole she finds herself staring at from the edge once more.

            “I’ll try,” she whispers, but the ghosts are standing at her back just waiting to push her in.

 

* * *

 

            She stayed outside long after her phone call with Bellamy had ended, letting the chill soak through her clothes and ground her to reality. It is only when her body begins to shiver that she finally picks herself up and turns back to the house.

            It is nearly as silent as the first time she entered, but now instead of shadows lurking behind the corners, a soft white light illuminates the halls and rooms, the only sign that someone else is there.

At first, she is tempted to seek her mother out, but the bone deep chill and rawness from their previous encounter has her turning up the stairs towards the attic once more. There she peels off her sodden layers, leaving a trail of clothes leading to the adjoining bathroom. She walks under the hot spray of the shower, letting it wash away not only the cold but the last remnants of tension that had clung to her muscles. Once her knees begin to shake under her weight, she turns the water off and steps out into the steam filled bathroom, wrapping a fluffy towel around her person.

            It is only then that it dawns on her that she doesn’t have anything else to wear. Since she had left straight from Bellamy’s dorm, she didn’t even think to stop by her own room to pack a bag, nor could she really fit into anything of her mother’s whose slim physique contrasted her own curvaceous body. She tugs the towel tighter around her. There might be a set of clothes in her car, but going outside in just a towel seems about as unappealing as putting back on her soggy clothes. That only left rummaging through her old dresser and hoping that whatever had got left behind still fit.

            Emerging from the bathroom, she turns to her left and faces the navy-blue set of drawers that housed her entire wardrobe for 18 years. Quickly rifling through the drawers, she finds an old pair of sweats that undoubtedly had belonged to Wells (if the way they hung off her hips were anything to go off of), a set of undergarments that were just a smidge too snug but otherwise fit, and a loose black tank top that skimmed the hem of her sweats.

            If nothing else, she looked comfortable, she observes as she surveys herself in the mirror. Almost like she still lived here, that she belonged in this house. But she isn’t and she doesn’t.

            Turning away from the mirror, she decides that it is about time she goes and seeks out her mother once more. While still not eager to continue their conversation (if it could even be called that) the prospect of having it over and done with is much more appealing. Perhaps then she could finally leave this place for good. _And go back home_ , a small voice whispers at the back of her mind.

            She finds the person she seeks in the sitting room adjacent to the foyer, her body curled into a large wingback chair and a book resting lightly in her hands as she stares off out the window. Following her gaze, Clarke looks out to see what has captured her mother’s attention. The oak tree stands in the center of the window, its barren branches swaying ominously in the slight breeze. Clarke adverts her eyes before the familiar pain settles too deep in her chest.

            She takes a step further into the room, drawing her mother’s attention. The woman’s gaze dips over her change in appearance, eyebrows raising ever so slightly (so little Clarke’s not sure if she imagined it or not) before her eyes meet Clarke’s. She turns back to the window without another word.

            “Mother,” Clarke starts, easing herself further into the room and sliding in a chair across her mother. Her eyes don’t leave the window.

            “Look,” she sighs, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t mean- I didn’t _want_ to come back here and fight. I’m sick of fighting.” She runs a hand through her hair, “Can we, I don’t know, just talk? Please?”

            Silence.

            “Mother.”

            Still nothing.

            She pinches her nose, “Can we not do this? I get that you’re mad and you probably have every right to be, but don’t you want to at least _try_ and fix this?”

            The wind blowing out the window pane is her reply. She can feel her frustration bubbling inside her and she shoves it down.

            “Mother.”

            “ _Mother._ Please, I’m trying my best here! Give me _something._ ”

            Silence is her only answer.

            “ _Mom._ ”

            Not even so much as a blink in her direction.

            “God, why do you always do this? I already apologized, what more do you want from me?”

            The wind picks up.

            “Fine, ignore me, but I’m not leaving until we _talk_ about this. Not argue. Not fling accusations. _Talk_. Because this ends, mother. This ends _now_. I won’t give you the satisfaction of making me hold onto this any further. You owe me that.”

            She turns to leave, making it to the threshold when her mother finally speaks. “I’ve always hated that tree.”

            Without another word, her eyes fall from the window and return to her book, not even sparing a glance at her daughter.

            Clarke turns away, pretending that it doesn’t hurt. Pretending that she had expected anything different. She walks down the hall, her mother’s silence hanging over her head and deafening her ears. Empty walls and unfamiliar rooms bear witness as she listlessly wanders through the house, slowly making her way to that plain wooden door. When the empty room stares back, she sinks down to the ground and curls her arms around her knees letting the silence wash over her.

            _Welcome home, Clarke_ , a dark voice chuckles.

            She lets it consume her.

 

* * *

 

            Clarke had begun regretting her choice of words as the week crawled by. Much like that first afternoon, she and her mother had fallen into a sort of pattern, one that led to either of them hardly being able to stand in the same room, much less talk to each other, without dissolving into another argument or a silent battle of wills. Sometimes Clarke would be the one to initiate this, other times her mother. Even with Jaha patiently trying to act as a sort of mediator between them, they never got any further than their first argument. A typical day would look like this:

            First one of them (usually Clarke) would begin by apologizing for the last argument they had. Then her mother would calmly and pointedly ask why Clarke came home to which she would reply (repeatedly) that she came to make sure she was okay and that they needed to talk. Then her mother would scoff and Clarke lost her temper.

            Rinse. Repeat.

            It had become a vicious cycle, one that is only broken on the days where Clarke doesn’t even bother to try, sometimes not even getting out of bed. Clarke finds herself slowly plummeting, sinking lower and lower until it consumed everything.

            It started with the texts, a steady stream of messages from Bellamy and her friends that she found herself ignoring more and more as the week went on. Soon she stopped replying all together, letting them pile up. It wasn’t even that they were invasive, most simply asking how she was doing or if her mother was doing any better and even the occasional joke or bit of gossip going around campus (though there was a particular ominous text from Miller that had just read _Seriously?_ ); still, she found herself too tired to type out a response or to even pick up her phone anymore. Now she just stares at the blinking notification light watching the colors change as it indicates the numerous messages.

            Truth is, she didn’t really have the energy to do anything at all. Most days when she wasn’t fighting with her mother, she found herself back in the empty workshop or occasionally in the parlor staring out the window at the oak tree. Rinse. Repeat.

            She can feel herself slipping away with each day, that dark voice that had been dulled to a whisper at Murphy’s becoming louder in the silence of her mother and the house around her. The only human interaction she is afforded comes in the brief moments with Jaha in the evening when he comes back from wherever he goes (grass stains on his knees and darker circles than the last time she spoke with him) and the screaming matches with her mother. And when the night would fall, Clarke would find herself curled into a ball on her bed, staring at her father’s words painted on the wall. _ex nihilo nihil fit._ Nothing comes from nothing.

            Maybe she was nothing. The edge of the pit looms closer day by day and now her feet dangle over the edge, nightmares plaguing every time exhaustion forces her eyes close and daring her to jump.

            She is almost afraid to say how close she has at times. The only thing that has kept her back is the quiet promise she made to Bellamy almost four days ago now. But even then, it is only so much to keep her at the edge. And not for much longer.

            Today is one of those days that she doesn’t even bother trying to talk to her mother, instead opting to spend her morning hiding away in her father’s workshop. This time she has brought her sketchbook to keep her company, but it turns out to be a fruitless effort. Hours later and she is still staring at a blank page.

            The day’s silence is finally broken by her phone, its soft buzzing echoing off the walls. She flicks her gaze to the desk where it rests and sees that it is Bellamy calling, his smiling face taunting her from the screen. She sits up a little straighter. He never calls, not once since she came back— text sure, but never _called_.

            Her fingers itch to pick it up, but another part of her wonders what would be the use; she hasn’t talked to her mother and has no plans on returning until she does. Why torture them both with questions she can’t answer?

            The phone stops buzzing and silence falls over the room once more. It rings again. This time she answers.

            “Hello?”

            “You know I may not use that nickname anymore, but I gotta say I’m feeling some pretty big urges right now. Even _you_ have to admit this house has some definite fairytale-like qualities to it.”

            “Wait, what?” She pulls the phone away and stares at the screen before bringing it back to her ear, “Bellamy?”

            “Yeah, it’s me.”

            “I’m confused. What’s like a fairytale?”

            “The house,” he huffs sounding extremely put off as if it should be obvious. (It’s not.)

            “What house?”

            “Come outside.”

            _No._

            “What?” the words come out more as a squeak and she’s on her feet.

            “Come outside.”

            _He couldn’t._

            “Bella-” she starts but she’s already moving toward the front door.

            “Just do it okay?”

She twists the handle and pulls open the door.

            “Surprise?” he smiles sheepishly.

            Her brain must have short circuited because Bellamy simply could _not_ be standing on her front porch. Now all the way in upstate New York when he’s supposed to be in _Virginia_. And certainly not in that damn coat she loves (and is 99% sure she left in her dorm room). Clearly, she must be dreaming.

            So, she closes the door.

            And opens it back up.

This time he smirks. “No, you’re not hallucinating. Or dreaming. Though I find it touching that you dream about me.”

            She gapes at him, frozen in the doorway with her hand still on the handle and the other bracing herself on the frame.

“Clarke?”

            Bellamy is here in New York. In person. On her porch. Bellamy Blake is standing on her front porch in New York in person.

            _Holy shit._

            “Holy shit.” The sudden urge to throw herself into his arms is only stopped by the equal urge to slam the door closed and walk away pretending none of this was happening.

            “Earth to Clarke.”

            So, she settles for throwing herself out the door and yanking it closed behind her.

            “What the hell are you doing here?!” she hisses, pulling him further down the porch away from the door and window.

            “Well hello to you too, Clarke. The drive up was fine, thanks for asking.”

            “ _Bellamy!_ ”

            He snorts, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, “What do you _think_ I’m doing here? You went MIA, Clarke. I came to make sure you didn’t run off again.”

            “I wasn’t _missing!_ I told you where I was and as you can _clearly_ see I haven’t left.”

            “Oh yeah? How come no one could reach you then? Jasper and Monty have been texting you incessantly, not to mention Murphy, all of which then call me and ask if _I’ve_ heard anything from you. Yet, nothing.” He lowers his eyes into a hard glare. “Tell me, Clarke, if that’s not missing what is?”

            She opens her mouth, poised to respond when she realizes that she _has_ been missing. She’s been running away from them all, no matter how she may try to dress it up. Because it was easier.

            She looks away unable (and unsure) of how to answer.

            Silence fills her response. A shiver works up her spine and she realizes that in her haste, she’s forgotten to throw anything over herself, leaving her dressed only in a thin tank top and leggings.

            Bellamy sighs, “Here, put this on.”

            He shrugs out of his coat and wraps it around her shoulders, tugging the collar closed at her neck. It’s oddly reminiscent of the last time he gave her this coat. And just like then a wave of cinnamon and pine fill her nose and a warm flush fills her cheeks.

            “Thank you,” she mumbles from beneath its folds.

            “Always,” he smiles softly, fingers lingering at the fabric.

            “Wait. How did you even get here?” She furrows her brows, “I never told you where I lived in New York, let alone gave you my address.”

            “Ah, well you see…”

            “ _Bellamy._ ”

            “Jasper and Monty _may_ have broken into your school records by hacking into the university’s system and pulled your address from that.”

            “Those little-”

            “Clarke?”

            They both whirled around to see Abby standing in the doorway looking curiously between the two of them. “Oh! Who is this?”

            Clarke sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her mother _finally_ decides to talk to her and it’s over _Bellamy_. Great.

            “Bellamy, this is my mother Dr. Abigail Griffin. Mother, this is Bellamy Blake my…”

            Her what? The guy she’s in love with? Her once maybe potential boyfriend? Dear god, what has become her life?

            “My…. Friend…”

            “Your _friend_?” her mother mimics, clearly judging the worth of her statement. Luckily Bellamy decides to step in and save her.

            “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Griffin. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He extends his hand out to her and she graciously accepts it.

            “Ms. Griffin,” Clarke does her best to suppress the flinch. “And is that so?”

            “Yup,” Bellamy pops the ‘p,’ the mood shifting for the worst.

            “Tell me, Mr. Blake, what brings you to my home this fine _early_ morning?”

            Bellamy’s grin in one Clarke is unfortunately _extremely_ familiar with. It’s one she’s seen many times, usually during a board meeting or when he’s had to be polite to her in public those first few years of know each other. In other news, it was a grin that meant nothing good.

            “I just came up to bring Clarke her school work and to make sure she was okay. She left awfully suddenly on Tuesday and we were all worried about her.”

            This time she does flinch.

            “You go to school with her? In Virginia? That’s an _awfully_ long way to drive for a _friend_.”

            If the earth were ever going to swallow her whole, this would be the moment she wants it to.

            “It’s nothing, I know Clarke would do the same for me,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

            Clarke throws him a glare. He was _really_ not helping this situation. A tense silence ensues as her mother and Bellamy stare off in some primitive showdown.

            “Well,” Clarke clears her throat, “Not that this hasn’t been _fun_ , but Bellamy really should be on his way.”

            “Oh no, we can’t have that,” her mother smiles sweetly (oh no). “Just look at the weather! Mr. Blake should by no means be driving anywhere.”

            She turns to Bellamy, “Won’t you please join us for dinner this evening? Hopefully, by then the weather will be safer to drive in. If not, we have a guest room you’re more than welcome to use.”

            “No,” Clarke quickly answers.

            “Of course,” Bellamy replies at the same time. Clarke glares at him. He just smirks. “I would love to stay for dinner.”

            “Perfect. Clarke, Hunny, please show Mr. Blake the guest room where he can freshen up and relax.”

            “Thank you very much for your hospitality, _Mrs._ Griffin.”

            Her mother, ever the bureaucrat, doesn’t even crack at his blatant slight but rather smiles simply and nods before turning around and leaving. Neither of them speaks until the door closes.

            “So,” Bellamy drawls, “Your friend, huh?”

            She doesn’t even need to look at him to see the smirk. “I hate you.”

            Not willing to continue their conversation from earlier, Clarke wordlessly turns to show him to the guest room, but before she can lead the way he stops her.

            “Hold on, let me grab something from my car.” She watches as he quickly ducks out of the porch and runs over to his car where it is parked next to hers in the driveway. It looked more out of place than her own.

            When he comes back, a duffle bag is hanging in one hand while the other brushes away white droplets of snow from his hair. She has to stop her fingers from reaching out to help.

            “Okay, let’s go.” She eyes the bag suspiciously, wondering exactly how long he had planned on staying, but decides against anything she might say. Instead, she nods her head toward the door. “This way.”

            Without another word, she leads him into the house and up the stairs to the second story. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him looking around the house, drinking in the details (or lack of) of her childhood home. She doesn’t offer any commentary. Stopping in front the of the only door to the right side of the floor, she speaks.

            “This is the guest bedroom,” she twists open the door and steps aside so he could enter, “There is a connecting bathroom through the door at your right with towels under the sink if you wanted to take a shower to warm up.”

            She hikes a thumb over her shoulder, “Directly across from your room is the library; feel free to go in, but I doubt there is much to read besides medical journals and dry classics. The door is directly down that hall, first on the left, but don’t’ go all the way down because that leads to the master bedroom.”

            She shifts to she is pointing to the staircase. “The kitchen is downstairs all the way at the back on your right. Usually, someone is in there who you can ask to make you something to eat, or you can do it yourself.” She shrugs, “Fair warning, I have no idea what’s even stocked in there, so you’re better off asking.”

            “I can cook pretty much anything” he snorts, “unlike _some_ people.”

            It’s a well-mannered jab, his tone too light to be biting and the look in his eyes too soft to be serious. Still, she doesn’t rise to the bait, turning instead to point to the staircase leading to her room.

            “I’m just at the top of those stairs. My door is usually unlocked so feel free to just walk in. I usually can be found in there if you need anything.”

            She turns back around to see him looking at her, that same soft expression in his eyes as he quietly searches her face for something. She ducks her face behind her hair to hide whatever it may be. “I’ll leave you to get settled.”

            As she moves to leave, he reaches out a hand to stop her. “Clarke.”

            She stops but doesn’t turn back around.

            “Clarke, look at me.”

            She doesn’t.

            “ _Clarke_.”

            With a sigh, she shifts so he can see her profile.

            “Here,” he holds out the hand with the duffle bag, “I brought you a bag of clothes. I figured you wouldn’t have anything with the way you took off.”

            She turns, surprised at the gesture and honestly a little taken aback. Of all the things she expected from Bellamy being _here_ , kindness was not one of them. She expected distance, the same cold shoulder he’s been giving her since her return. She expected anger, a furious rage for leaving him again. Not kindness. Never that. Yet here they were, her standing in his winter coat and him handing her a bag of her belongings because he knew she had nothing. Her fingers curl around the strap of the bag.

            “Wait,” it dawns on her, “How did you even get in my room?”

            A wicked smile blooms on his face, though it is accompanied by a slight flush that color his cheeks, “Did Miller ever tell you about his life as a cat burglar? Because it’s a riveting tale.”

            The corners of her mouth twitch up into something resembling a small smile. Her first since she’s been here. Something lights in Bellamy’s eyes and he takes a step closer, wrapping his hand around hers, sliding the duffle firmly into her grip.

            “I dare say is that a smile?” His grin grows wider, “And here I was thinking we’ve gone back to serious Clarke who doesn’t know how to have fun.”

            “I know how to have fun!” She snipes automatically. The sparkle dances brighter in his eye.

            “Well, I know that _now_. I seem to remember someone starting a couple of food fights and drinking everyone under the table. I also seem to recall some pretty heinous dance moves.”

            _At the cabin_ , her mind whispers, _when you were someone else entirely_.

            What’s left of that small smile slips from her face and she withdrawals, dropping his gaze and moving away. It’s only his tightening grip that stops her.

            “Clarke,” his face softens, the smile slipping as well. “Talk to me. I know something is wrong just-” his eyes pleaded with hers. “Just let me help.”

            But he can’t. She is beyond his help.

            She slides her hand from his. “I need to go speak with my mother.”

            As she leaves, his eyes trail after her the feeling never leaving as she disappears down the steps. Even long after that.  


* * *

 

            She finds her mother waiting for her in the kitchen, two coffee cups sitting in front of her as she sits at the breakfast table tucked in the corner. Wordlessly, Clarke takes a seat.  It is a few moments before either of them speaks, both content to let the silence hang over them with only the sound of her mother’s occasional sip from her mug piercing it.

            “So, Bellamy was it?” Clarke tenses and readies herself for a fight. “He seems like a nice young man. Is he also an art major?”

            “No, he studies history.”

            Her mother hums, a slight grimace gracing her features, “And he’s what exactly to you?”

            “A friend,” she clenches her jaw.

            “And is that all there is?”

            “I’m sorry what does this have to do with anything?” Clarke sighs, grabbing her cup to give her hands something to do.

            “I’m just trying to see what kind of boy is in my house.”

            Clarke bristles at her implication, “One of the best I’ve ever known.”

            “Forgive me if I would like to judge that for myself.” She takes another sip from her cup and Clarke puts hers down before she shatters it in her grip.

            “What is this really about, Mother?”

            She lifts a brow over the rim, “Can’t I take an interest in whom my daughter associates herself with?”

            “Is that all?” Clarke mirrors her expression, “No. Not when you’ve been ignoring me the better half of the week. So I ask again, what is this about?”

            “Honestly, you make it sound as if I’m out to get you like some villain,” her mother scoffs, “Who can only imagine what your friend must think of me from what you’ve said.”

            “Only the truth.”

            “I’m quite sure you believe that, Clarke. But the truth of the matter is that you’ve invented your own fanatical idea of what happened. The _truth_ you speak of is that you up and left without a single word for nearly two years.”

The cup clangs against the table as she roughly sets it down. “I had no idea where you were for months until your school had contacted me regarding some minor paperwork You could have been _dead_ for all I knew! Tell me, who exactly sounds like the villain?”

            “And when I came back?” Clarke matches her tone, “When I came back wanting to finally talk and fix things? Who decided to ignore me for days on end?”

            “You’re not a child anymore, Clarke; you can’t just waltz in and throw a tantrum and expect to get your way. You’re an adult. Act like it.”

            “Then start treating me like one! You can’t have it both ways, mother.”

            They stare at each other for a long time before Clarke turns away, spent and tired. “Good talk, mom.”

            Sher makes it out the kitchen when her mother calls out, “I expect you down for dinner at 6. Make sure to let Mr. Blake know ahead of time.”

            She doesn’t bother replying.

 

* * *

 

            This was a terrible idea. Why in the ever hell did she think this would be a good idea?

She looks nervously from Bellamy to her mother that for some reason were seated next to each other (again, just why?) with Abby at the head of the table and Bellamy to her right. To make matters worse, Clarke was seated opposite of him, giving her no chance to act as a buffer between the two. AKA when this dinner eventually turned into a train wreck, Clarke would have nothing do but to watch in horror.

            She sighs and reaches for her glass of water, taking a long drink. This was not going to end well at all.

            “This meal looks lovely, Abby. Thank you for inviting me to join you, though I do hope I am not imposing on your time with Clarke and Mr. Blake.”

            Oh yeah, and Jaha had joined them, something she normally would be grateful for (God knew how often he saved her this last week when it was just her and her mother) except now he keeps throwing these looks in her and Bellamy’s direction, looks that sparkled with mischief; honestly, it was starting to fray her nerves— well more so than they already were.

            “Not at all Thelonious,” her mother smiles, the picture-perfect hostess as she carefully cuts into the steak on her plate. “You’re practically family. I wouldn’t want you to miss the opportunity to meet Clarke’s friend. You know how little she visits these days.”

            She lifts a square of meat to her lips, pointedly chewing it yet never losing that smile. Clarke doesn’t bother replying.

            “Oh, come on now Abby,” Jaha smiles, “You remember how it is. College is so demanding these days, she probably doesn’t have much time to drive all the way up here.”

            Clarke winces and lowers her eyes to her nearly untouched plate (who knew you lose your appetite when you’re at the world’s most awkward dinner). She didn’t deserve Jaha’s kindness, not after she abandoned him just as she did her mother; she especially didn’t deserve his coming to her defense when she hadn’t even asked him how he was beyond that first morning, fear of what his answer would be kept her mouth sealed tight and their distance large. So, she let him become a casualty in her issues, another result of her and her mother’s war and a victim of her need to push everyone away.

            “What about you, Mr. Blake? What do you study?”

            Bellamy sits a little straighter, the movement stiff and awkward as if he was second-guessing his every move. He looked as uncomfortable as she did (he was). But maybe that was to be expected, his broad frame looking every inch out of place at her mother’s dinner table meant to seat much more than the meager four of them that sat now, with fancy china plates and crystal wine goblets filled with water. She was born into this, the stiff mannerisms and etiquette drilled into her from a young age until they became second nature, even after years of not practicing. Bellamy didn’t have that. No, he belonged on a worn couch with a plate of pizza on his lap and the lip of a beer bottle against his mouth as he laughed at a joke Miller or his sister made. He belonged in a house decorated with memories both good and bad and a door that rarely remained locked because everyone was coming and going.

            Not here. Not in this house.

            “Please, call me Bellamy.” He replies, “I study history, sir.”

            “Oh, I love history! What period?”

            “Ancient Civilizations mostly, but I prefer the Roman Empire.”

            “I was always more of a Greek fellow myself, but I suppose I could let this slide just once.” Jaha winks and Bellamy visibly relaxes, if only so much that his shoulders fall.

            “What do you plan to do with that Mr. Blake? Teach?” her mother cuts in.

            Bellamy stiffens once more, “No, not exactly. Though I’m sure I will do some teaching as I get my doctorate.”

            “Oh?” She raises a brow, “You plan to further pursue your degree?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “To do what? If you don’t mind me asking,” she smiles sweetly, “I am not knowledgeable of what your field has to offer outside of academics.”

            The muscles in his jaw clenches, “That is perfectly okay, Mrs. Griffin, not many can see just how applicable history is to everything.” This time Bellamy is the one to smile as he chews a piece of meat, “But to answer your question, I want to go into curating or possibly archival work.”

            “I see. Any museum in particular or perhaps a university?”

            “The Smithsonian is always a dream, but I’m not set on any one place.”

            “DC? Not too far from Virginia, but far enough. Won’t your family miss you? It’s awfully hard to be far from your children, even by a few states.”

            “It’s only me and my sister,” Bellamy replies, his tone a bit clipped, “While I don’t expect her to follow me if I do end up in DC, she has always remarked about how much she loves the capital, so I’m not too worried.”

            Clarke nods along, speaking up for the first time all evening, “Besides if Octavia decided she fancied California more, it is unlikely Bellamy wouldn’t be too far behind.” She gives him a small smile, “That’s just how they are.”

            He smiles back, a small tilt of his head in thanks.

            “So, you’re close to your sister then?”

            “He practically raised her. Quite literally after their mother passed away when he was just 18.” She felt like she was bragging, but something in her mother’s tone put her on the defensive. She can take jabs at her all night if she likes, but Bellamy was off limits. Clarke will be damned before she lets him be subjected to the same treatment.

            “My! Since you were 18? That’s quite a young age to be a parent. How old was your sister?”

            “12,” his voice is gruff, warning off any further attempts to continue this line of conversation. Yet before Clarke can open her mouth to change the topic, her mother continues.

            “That must have been so hard, raising a soon- to-be teenager when you yourself were little more than a child.”

            Now he’s grinding his teeth, fist curled around the silverware tightly, “My sister, my responsibility.”

            “That’s very noble of you,” her mother nods, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. Clarke kind of wants to rip it off. “Still, it could not have been easy and I can’t help but wonder if that was the best decision you could have made.”

            The table falls in a hushed tense silence.

            “ _Mother_ ,” Clarke hisses.

            “Now hear me out,” Abby waves her daughter off, “I’m sure Mr. Blake did his absolute best to care for his sister, but the fact of the matter is he was still a child raising another child. Perhaps maybe if she had gone into the child care system-”

            There is a bang, silverware rattling against the table and water sloshing in their glasses.

            “ _Enough_.”

            All eyes snap to Clarke, her fist curled into a ball next to her plate and her body looming over the dinner table. “You may insult me as much as you wish, but if you think for one second that I’m going to sit here and listen to you down talk Bellamy then you’ve got another thing coming.”

            “Clarke-”

            “No, you listen up,” she snaps, “Bellamy is the best brother and parent I have ever known and his sister is his entire _world_. If you think anyone could have done a better job raising her then you do not have a single god damn clue at what it means to be a parent.

“He sacrificed going to college for her, slaving away at menial jobs, as in _plural_ , so she could live the best life possible. And you know what? Octavia is one of the strongest people I know and a large part of that stems from Bellamy.”

            _And I will never be good enough for him_. The words choke in her throat and she has to pause.

            “So, stop your insinuating and your mightier than thou tone and just shut your mouth.”

            She sits back down, not meeting anyone’s eye, adrenaline pumping in her ears and her hands jittering. The silence continues for a heartbeat. Then two.

            “Well,” Jaha clears his throat, “Now that that _fun_ topic is out of the way, let’s move on to something else, yet?”

            “Gladly,” her mother clips.

            “So, Clarke. How long have you and Bellamy been seeing each other?”

            _For fuck’s sake._

            She pushes from the table, chair screeching in her haste to rise. “I need some air.”   

            In one fluid movement, she’s turning from the table and striding for the hall before anyone can stop her, though she can hear them calling at her back. She keeps walking. The door is nearly in her grasps before a hand gingerly grabs her own. She doesn’t need to turn to know who it is.

            “Clarke,” his voice is low, so low she must strain to hear it over her heartbeat. Her eyes remain trained on the door.

            “Kind of rude to just leave me to wolves, don’t you think?”

            Another joke met with silence, letting the air hung thick over them. Finally, it becomes too much for him to bear.

            “Clarke…Talk to me, _please_.” His voice breaks on the word and her heart along with it. Tears prick her eyes and air sticks in her throat.

            “ _I can’t_ ,” she whispers, pulling away, “I just need a minute.” She turns to him then, “ _Please._ ”

            He holds her gaze for a second longer, eyes shining before he nods. She reaches to touch his cheek before disappearing out the door and into the storm.

 

* * *

 

Snow covered the earth in a white blanket, everything so still and quiet around it is as if someone had paused a movie and left it there. She drifts out into that world, only the sound of snow crunching beneath her feet filling the air. Her feet carry her, not thinking about where she is going or what exactly she will do when she gets there; she is simply content to let the rhythmic movement drown her thoughts.

 _Crunch_. Left foot. _Crunch_. Right foot. _Crunch_. _Crunch_.

            Further and further it led her into that blanket of white and the darkness that clings to its edges.

            _Crunch._

            It’s cold, her mind registers, but she doesn’t feel it.

            _Crunch_.

            She doesn’t feel anything.

            Her feet stop moving and she looks up at the place they had inevitably brought her. The barren oak tree looms over her, its wide spread branches dusted white and its bark blending into the pitch-black night behind it. She raises a hand to touch it, feeling its rough texture beneath the frozen pads of her fingers. It felt foreign to her and it’s enough to push her over that final precarious edge she was balancing on.

            Fresh tears spill down her cheeks and her fingers curl into a fist, bark splintering from the trunk and burying itself deep into the flesh of her palm. Still, she felt nothing.

            This had always been the place where she could escape to, one of the few things (now the only) that had never changed when her father was taken away. It was also the one place she had avoided since her return, too afraid that it would remind her of the girl who used to sit under it and draw with her father. But now she thinks she was afraid of this, that it too would be taken from her— that it would be the final thing to break what little hope she had left.

            She may have just been right.

            Her knees buckle under her weight and she sinks to the ground, hands dragging down the trunk as if she’s unwilling to let it go. Finally, when there is no more left to hold, she just stares at it, hands falling to her side in a useless slump. Everything felt numb. Her tears dried and the silence of the world swallowed her whole.

 

* * *

 

            She doesn’t know how much time passes like this but it feels like forever and not long enough.

 

* * *

 

            The snow slowly begins to cover her. Still, she doesn’t move.

 

* * *

 

            The porch light flickers on and it is enough to draw her attention, her head lazily turning to stare at the house. There are several lights turned on throughout the estate, each illuminating a different window and creating a speckle of light in the darkness. She turns away, shying a little closer to the tree until the light cannot reach her. She wants to be in the shadows.

 

* * *

 

            Eventually, she finds the carving of her father’s name, her fingers brushing against the smooth engravings by mistake. Beneath his careful carving, two others are messily scrawled. She brushes over those too, fingers tracing every jagged line of the letters.

            Wells. Clarke.

            She looks at all three names, the memory of her father catching them with his tool in their hands and its edge embedded deep into the bark as they staked their mark to the world as fresh as the day it happened. She expected him to be furious but he had fondly shaken his head and simply wrote his name next to theirs, leaving his own mark on their small little piece of the world.

            “Now they’ll remember all of us,” he smiles, “We’ll always be together.”

            But they weren’t together; they had both left her alone to stare at the three names that now meant nothing.

            _They didn’t leave, Clarke. You killed them, just like everyone else._ That sick little whisper floats in the air and she flinches away from the carvings.

            _You killed them. You killed Finn. Just like you’ll do to_ him. Her eyes instinctively snap to the second story window. _You’ll kill him_.

            She’s shaking her head, the tightening in her chest threatening to rip her apart.

            _Don’t lie to yourself_ , it coos, _we both know it’s true. You tried to hide it, but deep down you know, don’t you? You’re_ poisonous _, can’t you feel it? Seeping into your bones and coursing through your veins?_

The window goes dark.

            _He’ll die just like the rest of them. And this time-_

            She screws her eyes shut, clutching her hands against her ears as if to drown out the vicious voice. And for a moment, she almost believes it works, the voice eerily dying in the air until the world is silent once more.  But when she opens her eyes again, she’s staring up at the shadow that has haunted her for all these years. Only now it has a face, hers.

            It looks sadly back at her, _You won’t be able to crawl out_.

            She blinks and she’s gone, only the looming house standing in her place. And Clarke realizes that the pit she has been staring at all week had never existed. There is no ledge, no cliff that she’s balancing on. She was already at the bottom.

            She never left in the first place. She never would.

            Her eyes find the window again and she can faintly see herself staring back, a small nod of her head to answer the question that hung unspoken on her lips. She knew what she had to do.

 

* * *

 

            She finds him in her room, his back turned to her as he stands at her desk taking in the photos. He has his arms braced lightly on the wood, eyes glued firmly to the wall before him. He must not hear her come in because he doesn’t turn around when she opens the door and slips in. Instead of speaking up, she leans against the door and drinks him in.

            He is still dressed in the same button down he had been wearing at dinner, but now the sleeves had been rolled up past his elbows and his collar lays askew across his neck, probably from unbuttoning the few buttons close to his throat. His hair is still a hopeless mess of curls, inky swirls tossed every which way as if he spent his time dragging a hand through it, but she knew was simply how his hair grew.  His shoulders are broad and the muscles in his arms are on proud display as he leans lightly against the desk, giving his body a tight line that she could draw for days. He was beautiful.

            Her heart swells because he’s _here_. She missed him so goddamn much and now _he’s here_ and now it’s like she can finally _breathe_. That’s what made this so much harder.

            She crosses the room, moving to stand at his side. If he’s surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it, eyes remaining turned to the photos, though he does shift ever so slightly to accommodate her.

            “ _Ex nihilo nihil fit,_ huh? Nothing comes from nothing.” he smirks, eyes turning to her, “And you call me a nerd. You have a literal dead language painted on your childhood bedroom wall.”

            She lays her head against his shoulder, savoring the way it fits perfectly and how the simple touch immediately chases away the cold still set in her bones.

            “It was something my father used to say,” she answers quietly.

            They are quiet for a moment before he says, “You have his smile.”

            Did she?

 “I don’t remember.” All she saw of his face was that small sad smile her word when she said goodbye to him the last time.

            “You do,” he reassures, moving to wrap an arm around her shoulders. But the moment his hand lands on the flesh of her arm he flinches. “Jesus Christ Clarke! You’re freezing.”

            He pulls her closer into his chest, hands rubbing up and down her arms trying to ward off the chill and warm the blood beneath her skin.

            “We need to warm you up fast.” He starts to move them to the foot of her bed, grabbing a hanging blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders.

“What were you thinking? You could have frozen going out like this.” He’s rubbing the blanket now. “Shit, if I would have known you were going to do this to yourself I would have gone after you-”

            “Bellamy.”

            “Instead of just sitting here like some-”

            “ _Bellamy_ ,” she reaches out to stop his hands.

            It is only when her hand comes to rest on his arm that he stops his ministrations and meets her gaze. His face is twisted in a combination of regret and anguish and she has to pull always, both guilty for making him feel that way and for what she’s about to do.

            “You should go, Bellamy.”

            “Go?” he blinks, “What the hell are you talking about? We need to get you warmed up before you do something stupid like give yourself hypothermia.”

            He takes a step forward and she steps back.

            “No,” she shakes her head, “You should go home, Bellamy. Back to Virginia.”

            His face scrunches in confusion before her words sink in and realization dawns on him, sweeping away the look with one of hurt then anger.

            “What the fuck do you mean _go home?_ I drove all the way up here to talk and now you’re just kicking me out? Just like that?”

            “I never asked you to,” she says calmly, “I never asked you to drive up here. That’s on you.”

            His nostrils flare, “ _That’s on you_ , well of fucking course it’s on me and you want to know why? Because you’re right, you _didn’t_ ask. You didn’t say anything! _You went radio fucking silent._ ”

            “I told you I needed to talk to my mother. I said to give me time.”

            “No, you said a couple of _days_ , Clarke. You were gone almost 5. What the fuck was I supposed to think huh? I said I wanted to talk— no, that I _needed_ to talk and you couldn’t even be bothered to answer your phone.”

            “Fine, you want to talk, Bellamy? Let’s talk. What was so important that you had to drive 7 hours to say to me?”

            He stops, an incredulous look blooming on his face. She has to bury the hurt is causes deep in her stomach to keep the pain from showing on her face. “Are you seriously asking me that? What do you think I came to say? We need to talk about what happened.”

            “What happened? You mean that we _fucked?_ Is that what you’re talking about?” He stills and she focuses on his face, hands curling in the blanket as she watches his expressions flick across his face. “What, you drove all the way up here to talk about _that?_ ”

            Hurt.

            “We slept together, Bellamy. What more is there to say?”

            Confusion.

            “Or maybe you came up because you wanted to go another round. Was it that good of a lay?”

            Anger.

            “Is that what you think, Clarke?” he growls, “You think I drove several fucking hours before the sun even rose so I could have sex with you again? God, were you always this egotistical?”

            “What am I supposed to think, huh?” she feels a knot begin to form in her throat, but she pushes on, “I thought we were both on the same page. We’re not dating, Bellamy. Hell, you don’t even _like_ me most of the time! What happened was a quick fuck, nothing more than banging out the tension that has been building since Christmas.”

            The words taste vile on her tongue, but she says them anyway, her only hope to end this all.

            “A quick- Is that what it seemed like to you? That we were just _fucking_ and nothing else?” He takes a step closer until he is crowding her against the foot of her bed, “Come on, Clarke. Tell me.”

            “Tell you what?” she wants to scream, “What more do you want me to say?”

            “I want you to tell me the fucking truth!” he roars. “For once. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”

            “What do you want to know?” It’s quiet, barely a whisper that the silence should have swallowed. But it didn’t and there was no turning back now.

            “Just,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunching closed and his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Just the truth, Clarke.”

            He finally looks at her, “Did you care? Did you _ever_ care? About me, about us, about the cabin and everything we said and did there. During all that did you care _just once?_ ”

Yes.

            “No.”

            “Did you feel anything— _anything_ when we- we _fucked_ ,” he spits the word like it tastes bitter on his tongue and her chest caves in.

            _Yes_.

            “No.” this one is quieter.

            “Did you ever love me?”

            More than she ever knew she could. More than she _deserved_.

            “No.”

            He looks at her— _really_ looks at her. His face is carefully blank as his eyes meet hers. “Look me in the eye and say it was a quick fuck.”

            _Just do it_ , the voice whispers, _before he ends up like the rest_.

            So, she does.

            “It was just a quick fuck.”

            He doesn’t say anything, just continues to look at her. She doesn’t look away. Finally, he closes his eyes and nods his head. When his eyes meet hers again all she can see is the sadness.

            “You’re a coward, Clarke.”

            He leaves, closing the door behind him without another word. The sound of it echoes in the room and shatters what’s little left of her mask and heart. She sinks to her knees, the blanket falling from her shoulders and pooling on the ground as the world grinds to a halt. In the silence she just hears a small voice, _What have you done?_

A sob rips from her throat and even though she clasps a hand over her mouth, it slips through the spaces between her fingers and floods her body with pain and sorrow. She flattens herself on her knees, arms coming to wrap around her torso in a desperate attempt to keep the pieces of herself from coming apart.

            But nothing can soften the blow of her having finally lost him. There would be no more late nights huddled on a couch with only whispers and laughs between them or small touches that always seemed casual, but linger just a little too long to be so. He was gone for good, for better (as she so often tried to convince herself) or not. He was gone and she may never be able to breathe perfectly again. She tumbles, falling faster and faster into that pit of black. Perhaps that is why she didn’t hear the thuds of footsteps on the stairs until it was too late.

            “You know what? _Fuck that._ ” He growls, slamming the door open so it crashes into the wall. Clarke barely has time to register the twist in events before he crosses the room in 3 angry strides. “Just because you want to throw away your life by pushing everyone away doesn’t mean I have to accept that.”

“You may have given up on yourself, Clarke but I haven’t.” His hands come to rest on her cheeks, crouching down so his eyes become level with hers as he softly raises her tear-filled eyes to meet his, “And do you know why?”

            She shakes her head, tears still spilling over her eyelids and blurring the features of his face together.

            “Because you are the most stubborn person I have ever met. Because you can drink just about anyone under the table despite being a little over 5 feet yet you can never seem to remember to eat before you do. Because anything you touch in the kitchen burns.”

            The tears pour harder.

            “Because I have never seen someone as competitive as you are over _everything_ and are the world’s worst winner. Because you are broken.” He whispers, wiping some of the tears with pads of his thumbs, “And scared and scarred but despite all that you are so _kind_ and loving and willing to do anything for the people you love. Even if it means burning yourself to the ground.”

            He presses his forehead to hers, “Because Clarke Griffin, I am in love with you I am so in love with you that it _hurts_. It hurts so much that it is probably going to break me more than it already has.”

            She’s shaking her head, trying to push him away and unhear the words that had left his lips. She couldn’t. She _shouldn’t_. _You’ll kill him._ But he doesn’t let go, shifting so she is folded into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into her hair, “It’s okay because you’re also the only thing that can fix me too. You already _have_. I didn’t know it then but I think I was just as lonely as you were. I just didn’t know how much until you were suddenly gone and it was like I couldn’t breathe right.”

            He pulls away and looks her in the eye, “So I’m not giving up on you. Because god damn it Clarke you changed my life you stubborn impossible woman and I can do the same for you, but you have to _let me_.” He caresses the scar beneath her eyes, “You have to let me in. _Let me help._ ”

            Maybe it was the pleading look in his eyes, or perhaps the slight tremble of his voice as he asked her for the one thing she was too afraid to do. Maybe it was the way he could still hold her so gently after every jagged piece had cut through her armor and displayed the broken mess she knew she was. Maybe she was just too tired to deny herself anymore. But she gives in, finally letting go of everything that had been bottling inside of her.

            Two shaky hands bunch into the fabric of his shirt and she wails. She wails for Finn and Raven. For Wells and her father. For herself and all the pain that had consumed her for so long. She lets go of all of it, letting it rise to the surface in unabashed tears and a guttural noise that left her shaking in its wake. Bellamy never lets go, arms tightening around her and rocking them gently in place.

            “I got you,” he whispers, his cheek pressed against her hair, a slight dampness where they meet. “I’ve got you.”

            “I’m sorry. _I’m so sorry._ ”

            “Shh,” he soothes.

            “ _I’m sorry._ ”

            Over and over again, she repeats it until the words become a jumbled mess of sobs and syllables. But he never lets go, letting her unload the burden of her grief and fear onto his shoulder so he can bear the brunt of the weight if only for this moment, It should have terrified her, finally letting someone see this side of her she had kept buried for so long and it did, but she found that beneath the fear was relief. Relief that she didn’t have to hide it anymore. Relief that she wasn’t alone. So, she cried and cried knowing he would wipe away any tears that fell.

 

* * *

 

            Hours pass before her tears finally dried from her cheeks and her breath evens into deep soft and steady rhythm. It is still a few more moments before he pulls away, but even then, he doesn’t go far. He brushes a stray strand of hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear.

            “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

            She nods, letting him gently tug her up to her feet and guide her to the bed. Sitting her on the edge, he quickly bends down and unties her shoes and slips them off before swinging her legs onto the bed and tucking them under the covers. She felt spent, content to let him push and prod her into position until he pulled the blankets up to her chest.

            “Rest,” he whispers, pushing away the rest of the hair from her face.

            And she wanted nothing more than to let her mind slip into unconsciousness, but when Bellamy moves to go, she can’t help but to reach out and grab his hand. “Don’t go.”

            She didn’t want to be alone anymore.

            He smiles, though his eyes shine with a soft sadness. “I should.”

            “I know.”

            They stare at each other for a small moment, before he presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll just get the lights.”

            Relief spikes through her chest and her fingers fall from his wrist back onto the blankets. She nods, pulling the blanket higher to her chin. He crosses the room and moves to hit the switch.

            “Wait,” she calls out and he pauses. “Can you press the second switch after you turn off the first?”

            His brow furrows in confusion, but he nods. She watches as his finger flicks the first light off and the room sinks into darkness though only for a moment before he presses the next one. The one she has been too afraid to touch.

            Breath stuck in her throat, she waits as the darkness slowly melts as the tiny illuminating dots flicker to life. Soon the bed is covered in the soft glow of the mural’s stars.

            “Wow,” he breathes, “That is beautiful.”

            She pushes herself up, twisting so she can finally see the last gift her father had given her. This time when she thinks of him she smiles. “My Dad helped me do it. He loved to come in here and watch it with me.”

            Footsteps cross the room and the mattress dips at an added weight, but she doesn’t look away, far too transfixed to tear her eyes from the lingering memory of her father. When Bellamy next speaks, his voice is much closer and his arms slowly pull her to him.

            “It sounds like he was really special, Clarke.”

            She nestles closer, “He was. I miss him.”

            They sit there for a moment in easy silence, both pair of eyes roaming the painted landscape in awe. It’s only when Clarke begins to yawn that Bellamy shifts behind her, easing them into a horizontal position but never moving them so she couldn’t look at the mural.

            “Get some sleep, Clarke.” They move until he is laying on his back and she’s nestled against his side and her head lays on his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath her ear. She shifts to rest her chin on her hand, looking up to him only to find him looking back.

            She loves him, the thought still as frightening and chilling as the first time, but he’s still _here_ and he loves her too.

            “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice soft and low.

            “I l-” the word chokes in her throat, fear still clinging to her heart, “I-” Tears swim in her eyes but she still can’t get it out.

            “It’s okay,” he hushes when it becomes clear she is working herself into a frenzy, “You don’t have to say anything. Just get some sleep, Clarke. We’ll talk in the morning if that’s what you want.”

            She swallows, grateful for the way out, yet ashamed she needed it because fear still ruled her. So instead she plants a soft kiss on his chest, willing every ounce of what she wanted to say in that small action.

 _I love you_.

            She kisses his cheek.

            _I love you._

            She captures his lips in a slow movement.

            _I love you_.

            She just hopes it is enough to save him.

 

* * *

 

            Clarke wakes up much like the first time she did in this room, the sun shining in her eyes and the cold air nipping at her skin from where it is exposed from the blankets. Yet, when she shifts to bury her face into the pillow she is met with the solid warmth of a chest. Last night slowly comes into focus as her ear picks up the soft heartbeat thrumming from where her head lays and a single word snaps her into wakefulness. _Bellamy_. She feels the heavy weight of his arm laid across her ribs and the tickle of his even breath against her hair and she finds that this is nothing like that first morning at all.

            Her breath is easier; the weighted linger of her ghosts are still at her back but she can also feel the beat of his heart and the warmth of his body that seemed to seep deep into her own from wherever they touched, letting her know she’s not alone.

            Slowly her eyes open and the bright world blinks into existence. As her eyes adjust, she is greeted with an expanse soft white cotton stretched across Bellamy’s chest and a dust of freckles peeking just under the collar of the shirt. She watches as it slowly rises and falls, mesmerized by the movement and filled with a soft fondness and disbelief. Angling her head just so, she is able to stare up at his face soft and slack with sleep. From this close, she can count each freckle across his cheeks and see the gentle flutter of his eyelashes when they twitch in sleep.

            _Because Clarke Griffin I am in love with you_.

            The memory makes her heart skip and a warm flush grace her cheeks but in the same moment, her body tenses and breath catches in her chest. She scrunches her eyes shut, focusing on his heartbeat and nothing else. He’s here. He’s safe. Nothing’s going to happen.

            On and on like a mantra she so desperately clings to until her heart slows to match his and her muscles slacken. When her eyes slide open again, they immediately drink in those freckles and the mess of curls resting against his forehead.

            He’s safe.

            “You’re staring.”        

            And apparently awake. This time a different kind of flush floods her cheeks.

            He peeks open an eye, “It’s creepy.” Her cheeks burn brighter and she hides her face against his chest. “It’s okay, I kind of like it.” His arm tightens around her.

            When her eyes meet his again, her heart skips at the look he gives her, a gentle and sleepy smile marked with an unmistakable fondness in his eyes. Yet in that fondness is a tinge of wariness— wariness she put there from one too many time from pushing him away. She loves him. She loves him entirely and completely and she did this to him. It breaks her heart.

            “I’m sorry,” she whispers

            Apprehension flickers across his face, “About what?”

            “A lot of things. For running away. For being broken. For not being strong enough to love you like you should be.”

            “Clarke-”

            “No,” she presses a hand gently to his lips, “I need to say this Bellamy, if not for me then because you deserve it.” She shifts so she can really look at him.

            “I am sorry that I’ve spent so long hurting you, Bellamy. I _hate_ that I did and wish I hadn’t but that doesn’t change the fact that I _did_. And I’m not looking for you to excuse what I did or even for forgiveness because I’m not sure I won’t do it again.”

            Tears prickle at the corner of her eyes, but she blinks them away.

            “And I know that sounds horrible and I wish, _I wish_ , I could say I won’t because you mean so much to me Bellamy, more than I can possibly say or explain, but _I’m scared_. I’m so scared.” A tear slips free regardless, “Because anyone I have ever let in and cared this much about has the habit of getting hurt because of me and the thought of something happening to you is unbearable. Losing my dad and Wells broke me. Losing Finn shattered the remaining pieces. But losing you?”

            She shakes her head as if to shake away the thought. “I’m not sure I could survive that,” she finishes quietly.

            He stares at her for a quiet moment, his eyes skipping across her face before he softly tugs her back into his side. Resting her head back on his chest, he softly runs his fingers through her hair. It’s another moment before he finally speaks.

            “I’m not going to lie to you, Clarke. When you left that first time at the cabin, I was mad. Furious even. I was mad that you were so reckless to go drive after how much we had all been drinking. Mad that you could be so selfish for going off on your own without thinking of what it would do to us if something had happened. But more than that I was mad because it hurt.”

            His arms slide back to her waist and grip her to him as if he had to reassure himself that she is still here. Her own hand tightens in his shirt to let him know she is.

            “And when you nearly dropped off the earth for a week, I’ve never been so afraid in my life. I called every hospital and police station from Virginia to New York looking for you. Yet even more than that no matter how angry I was, I _missed_ you. I missed you like you would miss a limb; you were gone but I could still feel you.”

            He chuckles darkly, “So you can imagine my frustration when Murphy called saying he found you but wouldn’t say exactly where you were to me or any of us.” His voice darkens, “I’ve had my fair share of issue with Murphy over the years, but I’ve never hated him more than in that moment. He is very lucky that he decided to tell me over the phone.”

            _Or very smart_ , she thinks.

            “And when I finally tracked you down it was like all the fear came rushing back. Fear that I would be too late. Fear that if I was, I wouldn’t be able to find you a second time.” He quiets for a second. “Fear that you wouldn’t want me if I did.”

            Her chest tightens and her fist curls deeper in the fabric.

            “Seeing you again was like that first breath of air after being underwater for a long time, everything came alive and the tightness in my chest loosened. It felt so good to hold you in my arms and hear my name from your lips that I thought my heart would stop beating. I think it was then that I realized how in love I was with you.”

            Another slice of guilt. He loved her and she left.

            “Then you walked away when I asked you to come home and it hurt. It hurt more than it did the first time and I was angry. Angry that after everything we’ve been through—after what you put me through— you chose Murphy over me.”

            He tips her chin up so her eyes would meet his. Big circles of brown swallow her blue.

            “Because I wasn’t good enough to help when you needed me to most.”

            Clarke breaks away, shaking her head violently, “No, Bellamy. _Never_ that. You were too good, you hear me? _You were too good._ ” She lays a hand on his cheek, “I didn’t want to be helped or saved. Nothing you could have done would have changed that. Nobody could have.”

            “Murphy did.”

            She pauses, unsure of how to ever explain what it is exactly Murphy did for her for those two weeks. She thinks for a long moment, running a few phrases over and over again until they sounded right.

            “Murphy helped me yes, in a way that only he could have but he did not save me, Bellamy.” She licks her lips, “Think of him as a safety net at the bottom of a long and dark pit, so deep light would never have reached the bottom no matter how bright. When I left, it was like I fell into that pit. He caught me just before I hit the bottom, keeping me alive but still trapped in the pit. I still had to crawl out.”

            She looks down, unable to say what’s next to his face. “That pit was going to kill me, Bellamy. And I would have let it.” He tenses beneath her but she pushes on, needing him to hear this. “Murphy might have tried to stop me, but I wanted it to swallow me whole. I didn’t think I deserved to crawl out.

            “I drowned myself in alcohol in hopes that it would numb the pain I was in and silence the overwhelming guilt. And when it did, I drank to keep that oblivion. I was killing myself, Bellamy. Not directly or suddenly, but slowly. And I would have succeeded.”

            “What stopped?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

            She meets his eyes, “You came looking for me and suddenly oblivion seemed bleak. I wanted to try. _You_ made me want to try.”

            “Okay,” he nods after a minute, pulling her lips to his for a chaste kiss that lingers “We can try together.”

            She curls back into his chest, heartbeat steady beneath her fingertips. “Thank you.”

            They lay like that for the rest of the morning, not breathing another a word, yet —at the same time— not needing to. She knows in that moment that everything was going to be okay. Maybe not now or even in the next few years, but one day she was going to be okay.

 

* * *

 

            “You don’t have to do this you know. She doesn’t deserve it.”

            “Yeah, I do.” She sets her bag down by the door. “I need to do it for me. I need to at least try.”

            “You’ve been trying all week.”

            She gives him a sad smile. “No, I’ve been running.”

            He grabs her hand, giving it a squeeze in understanding. “Do you want me to go with you?”

            “Please?”

            “Of course,” he pulls her into a hug, pressing a kiss to her hair. She holds on a for a moment longer before pulling away and giving him a nod.

            They find her in the kitchen, body leaned against a cabinet as she sips from a cup of coffee and looks out at the snow. When they walk in, she turns, eyes immediately darting down to their joined hands. Clarke steps forward, giving Bellamy’s hand one last squeeze before letting go.

            “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “I’m sorry for leaving all those years ago without a single word. I’m sorry that I didn’t call you in the time after and that I let you worry about me. I’m sorry that I ever let it get this far, mom.” She takes a step closer. “But even if I say all these things and _mean it_ , nothing matters if you won’t listen to me. Stop pushing me away. Haven’t we done enough of that by now?”

            For a minute, she doesn’t think she is going to get a response, but after a moment longer, her mother sets her cup down and meets her gaze, eyes sad.

            “I never pushed you away Clarke. You are my daughter, I love you.”

            “And he was my father.”

            There it was, the one subject they have been skirting around all this time. But Clarke was done tiptoeing.

            “He was my father and you just wiped him away like he never existed. Do you have any idea what that did to me?” She shakes her head, “I didn’t understand why he was being taken away and for you to just pretend like he was never there in the first place made me so angry and confused. I thought you loved him too, but it was just so _easy_ for you to pretend. And when I tried to get your attention you ignored me just as easily.”

            “I loved your father!” She cuts in, “I loved you father more than anything in my life, but he was going to destroy _everything_. I begged him to just let it go, to understand what we were trying to do but he was just so hell bent on being the good guy— on making sure that machine never saw the light of day.”

            “Yeah, because it was _killing_ people.”

            “No, because it was _maybe_ killing people. No tests were conclusive, I read the research myself, Clarke. Nothing definitively pointed to the machine as the cause for the increase in radiation. But was that good enough for your father? No. He wanted the thing destroyed and to start from scratch despite knowing that the hospital already invested _millions_ into the first machine. He knew that if they didn’t see any results soon they were going to scrap the project entirely.”

            She met her daughter’s gaze in a fierce stare, “That x-ray has saved millions of lives, having the ability to detect some of the earliest signs of Cancer in years, Clarke. Without it, so many more would have gone undiagnosed for who knows how long. As a doctor, it is my sole duty to save as many lives as I can, even if I have to make some sacrifices along the way.”

            Her gaze turns pleadings, “Don’t you understand? I did what I had to do.”

            Clarke shakes her head, seeing the logic in her mother’s words, but unable to block out the pain stabbing her in the chest. “All I see is my father’s face behind prison bars,” she whispers. “I see him hanging in his cell in a bedsheet noose because his wife decided that his life wasn’t worth the risk. That she couldn’t even be bothered to call or visit.”

            Her face hardens, but Clarke sees the shimmer of pain flick across her features. “I did what I thought was right.”

            “And now you have to live with that.” Clarke turns to leave when her mother reaches out to stop her.

            “Wait, that’s it? You’re just going to leave again?” She sounds sad, “I thought you wanted to fix this.”

            Tears form at the back of her eyes, “I did, I _do_ , but _I can’t_. I can’t forgive you for what happened. Not right now, maybe not ever.” Clarke admits softly, “It hurts too much to be here— to be around you and remember what you did. I loved Dad so much and you will always be the one who took him away from me.”

            Tears spill over and she had to furiously wipe them away. She can see tears forming in her mother’s own eyes and she quickly closes the gap between them to wrap her in a tight hug.

            “I’ll be fine,” she reassures, “You don’t have to worry about me anymore. I will be okay.” She pulls away slightly, “But don’t call me. Don’t call my friends or my school. You have to let me go.”

            Her mother opens her mouth, but she only shakes her head, “I need to figure this out on my own, okay? One day, I promise I’ll come back, but for now I need to go.”

            She steps away, her hand immediately searching for Bellamy’s, who wordlessly tangles his fingers with hers. “You have to let me go.”

            Tears run down her mother’s face in earnest now, but she wordlessly nods. Clarke turns to leave, but Bellamy hangs back for just a moment. Abby meets his eyes in a watery plea.

            “Take care of her alright? Please, she’s all I have left.” Her mother whispers.

            Bellamy nods and turns to follow Clarke out. When they closed the front door behind them, Clarke closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It didn’t even hurt a little.

 

**Two Years Later**

 

            The sun is high in the sky as she climbs the grassy hill before her. It’s hot, hotter than it’s been all season, but she welcomes the heat, relishing in the sun’s warmth after a long and cold winter. A light breeze in the air that tickles her hair and flutters her dress in the wind, taking the bite of the heat with it as it blows by.

            She shifts the bundle in her arms as she raises a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. She spots what she’s looking for a little further up the hill next to a tree. Climbing the last few feet, she comes face to face with the headstone.

_In Memory of Finn Collins._

_The stars are a little brighter with you there._

_February 14, 1997 – December 31, 2016_

            She kneels, brushing the fallen leaves from its curved top and setting the flowers she had brought on top.

            “Hey Finn,” she says softly, settling herself comfortably on the grass before the grave. “It’s been a while hasn’t it? Sorry for taking so long to visit, it’s been… hard. It was really hard.”

 “Let’s see what did you miss… Well I guess the biggest thing is that everyone has graduated by now. Monty and Jasper applied to MIT for graduate school and I’m getting ready to take the MCAT. I know you promised to help me study, but I think most of it would have gone over your head. Sorry.” She laughs awkwardly, finger hovering out to touch his name, “If all goes well I’ll be joining them in Massachusetts, maybe at Harvard or Brown. I haven’t decided yet.”

           “I don’t know if you remember Miller at all, but he’s off to Quantico to join the FBI like some hot shot. Can’t say Monty’s too happy but they’ve decided that they will try the whole long distance thing and see how it works.” She leans in close, “Just between me and you, I think they’re going to make it just fine.”

           She huffs out a laugh leaning back, “Who else is left? Lincoln finished his apprenticeship with his shop and is now working fulltime as an artist. Though I gotta say I miss his drinks at the Dropship. Octavia also has significantly built up collection much to her brother’s chagrin, but don’t worry I’ve managed to keep them from imploding too much. Even if Octavia is still a bit wary of me.”

            She pauses, only the sound of wind falling over them and it’s like her heart is seizing up. “I wish you could see them all right now, Finn. Everyone is all grown up and moving on to the next step in their lives and you should have been here with us. I don’t know if we would have made it or not but _you should have been here._ ”

           The words are enough to choke her up, barely squeezing past her lips in a hoarse whisper. The regret still too sharp in her chest.

“I was so mad, Finn, for a really long time. I hated that you broke my heart. Hated even more that you got yourself killed for such a stupid mistake.”

            There is a lump in her throat that she swallows down.

            “And I wanted to hate you _so bad_ because I needed some way to deal with it all, but the truth is I didn’t. I couldn’t hate you, Finn. I loved you.” A tear slips down her cheek, “You were one of the only things that kept me together after Wells died, the only person who could make me smile when all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry.”

            “I can never thank you enough for that because you made me hang on a little longer. Long enough to fall in love with Bellamy.” She laughs, wiping at her eye, “And I know what you must be thinking, _really him?_ But you kind of broke my heart so you don’t really get a say.”

            She smiles at the grave, “He makes me happy, Finn. He makes me so happy— happier than I’ve ever been in a long time. And in some sort of fucked up away, I guess I have you to thank for that. So, thanks, I guess.”

            Silence falls over her once more.

            “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it Finn. I really wanted to.” The leaves rustling in the wind is her response and her smile widens just a little bit. Picking herself off the ground, she brushes the grass from her legs as she rises to full height. “See you later, Finn.”

            Patting the stone lovingly, she turns to go but her path is cut short by another person standing just a little before her, another bundle of flowers gripped tightly in one hand.

            “Raven,” her heart drops to her stomach and suddenly the cool air turns biting. Clarke hasn’t seen the girl since her Astronomy class had ended at the end of her sophomore year. She looks different—better, the dark circles under her eyes lighter and her complexion brighter and unmarred by the sorrows of grief.

            “I’m sorry,” Clarke hastily smooths down her dress, “I was just- I’ll leave.” She moves to go, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

            “Please don’t,” Raven stops her, “You don’t have to leave.”

            “I kind of do,” Clarke gives her a sad smile.

             “No, you don’t,” She shakes her head, “I want to say something to you. Something I’ve been meaning to say for a long time.”  She looks at her pleadingly, “Please?”

            Clarke stops. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

            “Right well, uh, shit.” Raven scratches the back of her head, “I never thought I’d actually get this chance you know? I said some pretty vicious things to you. I even left you with a scar.”

            Clarke’s hand immediately goes to the faint line beneath her eye.

            “Sorry, I’m babbling” she sighs, taking a deep breath before starting again. “Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. What I said to you that day, the day Finn died, it wasn’t fair.”

            “It was,” Clarke whispered.

            “No,” Rave answers fiercely, “It wasn’t.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and raises her eyes to the sky. Unshed tears shine in them. “I was just so angry, you know? I gave up everything for him, moved schools, moved _states_ and he just up and forgets me for some blonde bombshell he meets his first year at school. It stung.”

            “And when you _left_ and he still couldn’t let go, that stung worse. He chose you.”

            “No, he didn’t,” Clarke shakes her head, “I asked him to choose. Before I left, I _made_ him choose between you or me. He said he couldn’t let go of _you_.”

            Raven’s smile is watery and sad, “But he did. That night he drove off, he let go of me and chose you.”

            _You killed him! It’s your fault._ The words still ring in her ears today and even now Clarke can’t find it in herself to disagree.

            “I used to blame you because I needed to. I needed some reason for why my life went to shit and I lost the only family I had.” She meets Clarke’s gaze, “But that wasn’t fair of me. You didn’t make Finn drink and drive. If anything, it’s my fault for not taking his keeps when he tried to go.”

            Clarke lets her words sink in, noticing the way Raven’s mouth grimaces and her eyes get this far off look and Clarke realizes that maybe she wasn’t the only one who still blamed herself for Finn’s death.

            “Maybe we’re both at fault,” Clarke finally says, “Maybe neither of us are. Either way, we must live with what happened and hope it doesn’t destroy us along with him. I don’t think Finn would have wanted that, for either of us.”

            There is a small pause where neither speaks, both looking at the grave of the man they both knew and loved.

            “He loved you, you know. He really did.” Raven finally says.

            “He loved you too.”

            Silence is her reply. Clarke turns to go when Raven asks just one more question. “Did you love him?”

            Clarke smiles, “We both did.”

            “Thanks, Clarke.” She kneels in the grass, laying the flowers gently beside Clarke’s.

            “Thank you too.” She leaves, wiping the last of her tears away. She can’t help the small smile that works its way on her lips as she starts back down the hill.

            The car isn’t too far from the base and when she makes it to the bottom, she can already see Bellamy leaning against the door of his car, a book in his hand and a pair of glasses precariously balanced on the tip of his nose. Her heart swells at the sight of him, something that has becomes a common occurrence in these past two years. But she can’t find that she minds so much.

            “Hey,” she greets as she walks to his side.

            “Hey,” he looks up from his book, quickly wrapping an arm around her and planting a kiss to her temple. “Everything go okay?”

            She hums, “Yeah. I actually ran into Raven.”

            “Oh?”

            “It was nice. I think we both needed it.”

            “I’m glad you ran into her then.” He smiles, closing the book where he left off. “Ready to go?”

            She nods, “Yes, please.”

 

* * *

 

            She’s sitting in the passenger seat watching the road stretch before her and the rolling hills of green zoom by as they sail down the freeway. The radio is turned on low and the windows are cracked so the wind blows through their hair. Her hand rests in his on the center console, the other propping up her chin on the window and his on the wheel. She looks from the window to him, drinking in how the sun bounces off his curls and the way his freckles dance on his cheeks. The thing she loves the most is the easy smile that plays on his lips as he hums along to the song on the radio.

            It hadn’t been easy getting here. Despite all the progress they had made in the last two years after hushed promises and kisses, they still had plenty of bad days. There were times where the past was too hard to ignore and they fell into old habits of screaming and fighting. Some nights they would fall into bed with their back to the other and a space so wide between them neither were sure how to bridge it. But each time they would find their way back to the other. They would give each other the forgiveness they so desperately needed and support them when they couldn’t do it themselves. _He stayed_. And looking at him now, she is glad he did.

            “I love you.”

            He looks from the wheel surprised. “What?”

            “I love you,” she repeats.

            The smile that blooms on his face is indescribable. It’s everything.

            “Say it again.”

            “I love you.”

            “Again.”

            She laughs, “I love you.”

            “Again.”

            “Aren’t you going to get sick of hearing me say it?”

            “Never.”

            She brings his hand her lips and kisses it. “I love you,” she murmurs into his skin.

            He beams at her, “I love you too, Clarke.” He kisses her knuckles. “Let’s go home.”

            _Home._ She smiles. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god it's actually over. At just over 150k words, this monster of a fic is OVER. (Thank god?)
> 
> I'm in literal shock. This chapter was really hard to write because while I knew the story was ending, I didn't realize how close to the ending I actually was until I started outlining the chapter back in February or so. And when I started writing the actual chapter, nothing felt good enough. I wanted this ending to be worthy of you all because I owed you all that.
> 
> When I first posted this story I had no idea what a beast it would turn into, or if anyone would actually want to read it. Well low and behold, two years later and many nights spent at the computer typing 150k+ words and we've reached the end of this story. But I want you all to know that it was worth every second I spent on it. You, the person who has read every chapter no matter how long or far apart, made this fic worth writing. I loved hearing from each and every one of you and honestly, it made me keep pushing myself as a writer and as a storyteller to make sure this fic was worthy to be read by you. I am forever grateful for all the Kudos and Comments you guys have left me because they told me I wasn't alone in this journey. You all walked beside me as I told Bellamy and Clarke's story through every up and down, every laugh or tear, you were there.
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> And to my Beta, Tanya, this story would be an absolute mess without you there to listen to me ramble on and on (and take up way too much of your time) about two fictional characters and stressing over the tiniest of details. You were my rock through this all reminding me that I could do this and my voice of reason when my brain strayed too far down the rabbit hole. This story is as much of yours as it is mine.
> 
> I'm afraid that's the end of my spiel kids and the last stop on TCIOA. As of right now, I have no plans to write more in this universe, having felt the story complete enough as is, BUT I have been thinking of writing a small excerpt of this story in Bellamy's POV, specifically from the end of Ch 15 through the end. Let me know if that's something you all would like. 
> 
> Otherwise, thank you again for reading this story and I hope to see you in some of my other works :)


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